


Bisclavret

by Shalebridge_Cradle



Category: A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder - Lutvak/Freedman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 23:58:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17928821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shalebridge_Cradle/pseuds/Shalebridge_Cradle
Summary: She cannot afford to be grotesque.





	1. Introductions are Needful

After all that had happened, Sibella didn’t expect to return to Highhurst. Not like this.

The castle had looked so grand that evening. The oranges and purples of dusk reflected in the windows, the sunset bathing the estate in gold. Now, in the bright light of day, it appears… less so. That may just be the change in Sibella’s views, she thinks, rather than any fault of the castle itself. She _had_ associated Highhurst with opulence and opportunity, the night of the dinner – now she sees it as the site of betrayal, strife, and murder most foul. That whole business with Adalbert, the late earl, and Monty – _dear, dashing, despicable Monty_ – her blood chills just thinking about it.

Sibella fiddles with her purse when the butler (what is his name? Mr. Gorey? Wait, no, it’s Gorby) stops in front of a large, oaken door. “Before I announce you, Mrs. Holland, I must ask that you end your visit before five o’clock this evening. Her Ladyship has been quite firm that no-one is to call on her after this time.”

“I’m surprised she is accepting visitors at all,” Sibella replies, and winces internally at the sharp look the butler gives her, “but I am grateful, and shall do as she requests.”

“Her Ladyship has also asked that any conversation relating to the present earl’s trial is to be avoided. The affair has been quite taxing on her, and she would rather not be reminded of it.”

“Of course.”

With one last warning glance, the butler turns the handle.

Sibella’s never seen this many books in her life – well, not all in the one place, anyway. Towering bookshelves, covering every wall from floor to ceiling, every space filled with leather-bound tomes from generations past. All she can smell in here is wood and old parchment – and perhaps just a hint of disdain from those who acquired the volumes, those long since dead.

In the midst of it all, at a table tucked in the far corner, sits Lady Phoebe D’Ysquith.

Sibella had attended the wedding, of course. Lionel refused to turn down the invitation to the nuptials of an earl. She’d thought her gaze would be affixed to Monty – _sweet, clever, treacherous Monty_ – but she found, to her surprise, that was not the case. Phoebe, with her gorgeous dress and her glittering jewels and her positively radiant smile, had probably captured the eyes and hearts of many a guest.

It’s hard to believe the woman at the table is the same person, frankly. Still pretty, yes, but there’s none of that infectious happiness, no sparkle in her eyes as she leafs through an ancient text. She doesn’t seem to hear Mr. Gorby as he announces Sibella, almost jumping out of her seat when she realises there’s someone in the room with her.

“Mrs. Holland! Do excuse my _atrocious_ manners, I should have been more prepared for your-”

“You have nothing to apologise for, Countess Navarro. You are the one to dictate how this afternoon will go.” She glances over at the book. “May I inquire as to what you are reading?”

“Oh, this? I picked this at random. It’s one positive about living at Highhurst – I shall have a book to read every day for the rest of my life, provided I brush up on my Middle English.”

That doesn’t answer Sibella’s question at all. “Surely there are other advantages. A place like this probably has plenty of ways to pass the time.”

“Ah, yes, that’s true, but most of them require... other people...” There’s a pause. “Besides, I have more urgent matters I must attend to.”

“Oh?”

Phoebe wrings her hands. “Well, I... it appears something is missing. Nothing to worry about, really. Come, I shall show you the grounds – would you care for some afternoon tea?”

“That sounds lovely, but -”

 _But_ nothing. Sibella’s already being led from the room, and the opportunity for answers disippates.

 

~

 

A number of things become perfectly clear as time flies by. Unfortunately, none of them help Sibella all that much.

Firstly, it seems that the countess is, in fact, as nice as she appears to be. A bit of a shame, really – it would be much easier for Sibella to dislike her lover’s wife if she were as pompous as the society ladies she’s used to. While Phoebe does occasionally slip up and say something indelicate, it is never cruel or mocking, and (most importantly to Sibella) it is always something interesting. They speak of the arts, of poetry and theatre and, once the tea arrives, of plants.

“I prefer chocolates as a gift, myself, but I’ve always fancied how a proper bouquet can tell a story.”

“Oh, I agree,” the countess beams, “you can be so clever with flowers. Just think, sending someone a beautiful arrangement – yellow carnations, pansies, rhododendrons, perhaps some peonies – and they could have no idea what it secretly says about them!” She dips her head, suddenly repentant. “Not that I ever would insult someone like that.”

“Of course not, Your Ladyship.” Sibella, on the other hand... she simply _must_ find a book on the language of flowers when she gets home. Peonies, carnations... what else had Phoebe said? “You seem to be well-versed in such matters.”

“I’ve always liked flowers. They’re pretty, naturally, but I also love caring for them, watching them bloom, and how... how they reflect people, in a way... someone could appear pleasing, but could be poisonous on the inside...”

Sibella is almost certain that wasn’t directed at her (although she wouldn’t be surprised if it is). Phoebe is clutching her fragile little teacup tightly, eyes closed, face blank.

“Are you quite alright, Countess?”

“Yes. Forgive me. Despite appearances, I am not bored. Quite the opposite, I assure you.”

The second thing Sibella learns is whatever has been demanding Phoebe’s attention, whether it be her husband’s trial or some other predicament Sibella isn’t privy to, has made her very, very tired.

Poor dear. Sibella has the inexplicable urge to give her a much-needed hug, but that might be a grave breach of decorum.

“Perhaps you should get some rest, Your Ladyship,” she says kindly, giving Phoebe a gentle pat, “you need not sacrifice your well-being to entertain me.”

“Oh, don’t leave on my account! A conversation with you gives far more than it takes away. It’s been too long since I’ve had someone to...” the break in Phoebe’s voice is subtle, but undeniably present, “someone to talk to.”

Someone to talk to. But she’s the Countess of Highhurst, now, quite the change from her position far down in the line of succession. Surely everyone would want to speak with her about...

About the earl. The earl who rose from nothing, or the earl who lost it all. About charming, thoughtful, _horrible_ Monty, languishing in a prison cell when he and Phoebe should be on their honeymoon, or the man he supposedly killed.

“There are guests I’ve never seen, you know,” Phoebe continues, “when Gorby tells them I won’t speak of my husband or the accusations against him, they decide that... that any conversation with me is no longer worth the trouble. They make their excuses, and they leave.”

Sibella is still unsure if Monty deserves such treatment. However, she is positive that Phoebe does not.

“I can assuredly say, Countess, that they’ve made the wrong decision. Had these scavengers and scandalmongers possessed any decency at all, they would have found a fascinating woman waiting for them.”

For a single, blessed moment, that magnificent smile Sibella had seen at the wedding returns to Phoebe’s face, like the sun peeking through stormy skies.

“You are far too kind, Mrs. Holland. It seems to me you are just as beautiful on the inside as you are on the outside – and I guarantee, that is very lovely indeed.”

Sibella blinked, a sudden giddiness temporarily leaving her tongue-tied. “Oh. Um, thank you kindly, Your Ladyship.”

“I must repay you somehow. Tell me, is there anywhere within Highhurst you would like to see?”

“Hmm. Nowhere in particular... shall we explore for a while?”

Phoebe grins, and offers her arm.

Sibella takes it.

 

~

 

They’ve retired to the drawing room, for the moment. It’s past four, and the grandfather clock in the corner ticks away the seconds, stealing what little time Sibella has left with the countess.

Phoebe herself is, unsurprisingly, aware of this. “I hope there’s still reason for you to return. I will have to learn more about the family’s history, but there is still plenty to show you.”

“I am quite happy to visit only for your company, Your Ladyship.” There’s only so much she _wants_ to know about the D’Ysquiths, anyway.

Phoebe ducks her head, fidgeting with the fabric of her dress, hiding a sheepish smile.

Well. Perhaps one D’Ysquith.

“Oh, now that I think about it, there is something before I go...” Sibella dips into her purse, and pulls out a sealed envelope. “Mr. Holland – Lionel – asked me to give this to you when he heard I was coming to see you.”

Phoebe accepts it, after a moment’s consideration. “Ah, Mr. Holland. He didn’t attend the dinner, did he?”

“No. Detained in Newmarket. Something about a horse, he said.”

“Whatever could he want with me, then...?”

“I’m afraid I’m not sure. He wouldn’t tell me.”

Phoebe raises her eyebrows. “How odd. To keep things from your significant other – oh, but I shouldn’t say things like that. My apologies.”

No apology needed. It’s not exactly ‘keeping things’ from Sibella when she doesn’t care about it. No matter how hard Lionel tries to make his business seem engaging and important, he fails, an affliction that poisons nearly every word out of his mouth.

“Perhaps I shall take my leave now, then,” she says, taking another glance at the clock. “From my understanding, that is for your eyes only.”

“No, no, stay. Unless your husband is sending me military secrets, I see no reason to banish you.”

As the countess’s eyes flicker further and further down the page, her frown deepens, her lip trembles, and the look of hurt and confusion she gives Sibella brings to mind a kicked puppy.

“Is this the only reason you came to see me today, Mrs. Holland?”

“Not at all,” Sibella swiftly replies, her own concern heightened by Phoebe’s distress, “I came to offer whatever support you should require from me.”

“Then you are certain you did not know the contents of this letter? That there's nothing wrong at all?"

“I was under strict instructions not to open it.” She was tempted, but an envelope torn open would make her disobedience plain for all to see.

Phoebe’s pained expression softens slightly at this news, and she returns her attention to the note. “Well, please tell Mr. Holland that he is quite correct in his assumptions. If he so desperately needs a loan, he should ask the bank, not me.”

A loan? Why in heaven would Lionel ask for a loan, let alone ask it from a woman – a _noblewoman_ , no less – he’s never actually met? She knows very well that he can be boorish at times, but this is no intricacy of etiquette one might overlook. It’s common sense, surely.

“I do apologise for my husband’s tactlessness, Countess Navarro, but I don’t quite understand. Is he asking for money?”

“I’m not sure what else he could be requesting.”

Sibella gives a short, disbelieving laugh. “We’re hardly struggling. Why, we went to the opera just the other night. If we were in debt, he wouldn’t...”

_He wouldn’t let me know, would he?_

Lionel is under no illusion when it came to why Sibella married him. True, she had made her vows _for richer, for poorer,_ but both knew it was heavily biased towards the former. He flaunts his wealth at every opportunity for just this reason - he knows good looks alone won't get him far.

“May I see it, please?”

After some hesitation, Phoebe hands the letter over. It’s just as she says; worse, even. Her jaw clenches as she studies her husband's words, until she can longer read it – her hands are shaking with rage, unable to keep the page still.

 _As I understand it,_ he writes, _your husband the Earl has a long-standing friendship_ (HA!) _with my wife Sibella, going back to their childhood. I am sure that Lord Navarro himself, were I able to ask him directly, would see to it that such a long-time companion would be provided for._

Hmph. So she’s being treated as an asset, is she? Not only does Lionel keep this vital information about their livelihood hidden from her, he _uses_ her as a _bargaining chip_! A mere _tool_ in his desperate attempts to stay afloat! The man _finally_ does something of note, and it’s _this_!

“He’s upset you, hasn’t he, Mrs. Holland?”

Sibella thinks her foul mood is answer enough. “I see no reason why you should reply to this letter at all, Your Ladyship. Not only do you have no business in fincancing his ill-advised investments, he should not be encouraged to behave in such an arrogant manner!”

“But this will hurt you as well, won’t it?”

“Well...” Sibella clutches at her purse, deep red and exquisitely embroidered. Bought with Lionel’s money. “Yes, of course. However, it is something that can be endured, at least for a time.”

But how long will that be? The fact he’s asking Phoebe probably means other avenues have failed. The bank would be the first choice, obviously reluctant to lend, and his father – the source of her husband’s wealth, unsurprisingly – must be unwilling or unable to bail his son out of trouble. Unless he had a string of good fortune on par with Monty’s, things would soon become decidedly grim for the two of them.

Her momentary descent into melancholy is interrupted by a gentle hand on her knee. It’s kind, comforting, yet Sibella can’t bear to look up and see the pity in Phoebe’s eyes.

“You will let me know if it gets worse, won’t you? I don’t want you to suffer for something that’s not your fault.”

“Such is life. Good fortune or ill, we must withstand what comes.”

“...Indeed.”

...Ah. That may not have been the wisest thing to say to a D’Ysquith in the current climate. Just as Sibella is about to try and fix her mistake, the butler pops his head into the room.

“My Lady, dinner will be ready in five minutes.” He gives Sibella another glare of diplomatic disapproval, before disappearing again.

That doesn’t sound right. Sibella takes a peek at the clock. Five minutes to five.

“Awfully early for dinner, isn’t it?” She mutters.

Phoebe shakes her head. “It can’t be helped. Any later and it would be -” she cuts herself off, and there’s a flash of blind panic on her face that she barely manages to tame. “...I’ve been a bit out of sorts, lately, as I’m sure you can imagine. I may fall asleep in my food if I leave it too late.”

That’s quite clearly a lie, but Sibella smiles and nods nonetheless. Best not to stir things up any more than she has already.

“You’re coming back, though, aren’t you?” The plaintive expression Phoebe’s giving her guest is making it exceedingly difficult to say anything other than ‘yes’.

So, that’s precisely what Sibella does. “If you will have me.”

“Well, of course! I anxiously await your next visit, Mrs. Holland. But, until then...”

“Until then, Countess Navarro.”

Mr. Gorby is the one that escorts her out, opens the door to another dusk. This time, however, Sibella has a new concern – what people are hiding from her, and what she can do to uncover the truth.


	2. Optional Civilities

Visits with the countess have become far more frequent, to Sibella’s satisfaction; the suggestion she had made in her moment of anger, while at first regrettable, turns out to have worked in her favour. With no answer from his potential benefactor, Lionel is encouraging his wife to see the otherwise reclusive Lady Navarro, in hopes that Sibella will charm her into funding his ventures.

(Ah ha. Ah ha ha ha ha ha.)

Phoebe is all too happy to be in her presence, and the genuine delight she seems to receive from it does wonders for Sibella’s sense of self-worth. She is somewhat used to the sensation from men – regrettably, less so now that she’s married – but to have a lady give her anything other than a tight-lipped smile is rather gratifying.

Amongst similar breaches of formality, Phoebe has been encouraging Sibella to speak her mind about certain topics. The countess is of the belief that, though elegance and refinement is all well and good, it often obscures a person’s true self. This suits some individuals nicely, she says, but others can have their real worth undervalued in the name of civility.

Sibella isn’t sure how to feel about that. She doesn’t believe she’s a _bad_ person, exactly, but she’s proud of how she presents herself. After all, doesn’t Phoebe herself take appearances into account, remarking on how lovely Sibella looks today or complimenting her perfume?

...In fairness, Sibella will admit that open conversation is certainly a prominent aspect of Phoebe’s appeal. Not that she gives _everything_ away – that would end the arrangement rather quickly – but she is significantly more candid with her opinions.

“No matter how conservative I may be with my spending, Lionel has to go ahead and make his problems worse for the sake of his reputation. Of all the Gilbert and Sullivan works, why _Ruddigore_?”

“Perhaps he’s trying to cheer you.”

Sibella waves her hand dismissively. “It would cheer me a lot more if he were more sensible with his finances. There were talented singers, I’ll pay that, but the ending doesn’t make any sense – pointing out a logical fallacy in a curse’s wording shouldn’t resurrect those who died from it.”

“...A curse, you say?”

“Yes, whoever has the title of Baronet of Ruddigore has to commit a crime every day or he dies a painful death. That’s the plot.”

Phoebe seems to be conflicted by this information ( _for heaven’s sake, Sibella can’t talk about curses around a D’Ysquith!_ ), though she says nothing of it. Sibella is about to apologise, when something else catches the countess’s eye.

“...Is there something wrong, Countess?”

“Nothing _wrong_.” Phoebe gestures with her head, a slight incline towards the grounds. “Lady Eugenia. Do be kind to her; she’s been quite distressed since her husband’s death.”

“That’s...”

_Odd_ is probably the wrong word, but Sibella got the impression that the Dowager Countess wasn’t that fond of the late earl, to put it lightly. Perhaps it’s a case of absence making the heart grow fonder.

“If she comes to speak with me, I shall do so,” Sibella says instead.

It’s difficult _not_ to spot them – their presence is like an ink blot on a renaissance masterpiece. She assumes it’s Lady Eugenia underneath that shapeless black dress and veil, far from the elegant figure she was at the dinner party. Two large hounds accompany her, their leisurely walk speeding up to a trot once they spot their new prey.

“Don’t worry about them,” Phoebe says, sensing Sibella’s apprehension, “they’re both sweethearts, really. The dogs, I mean – I suspect their mistress shall want you to curtsey, and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to or she’ll – _good afternoon, Lady Eugenia!_ ”

Lord in heaven. Sibella sincerely hopes she dies before Lionel – if she doesn’t, she’d probably follow her husband to the grave from the horror of having to wear that much crepe. At least if she wears the full veil, no-one will have to know it’s her.

“As good of an afternoon as it can be, Phoebe dear, and to you...” Eugenia parts the veil for a split-second. “Ohhh, the Enterprising Mrs. Holland! _You’re_ back, are you?”

Sibella bows. “Indeed, Your Ladyship. Countess Navarro has requested my company, and I am quite happy to provide.”

“Indeed?” The veil turns sharply toward Phoebe, who is happily petting Eugenia’s hounds, blissfully unaware. “Well, I daresay this has been a trying time for all of us. One looks for comfort in such circumstances. Though, I _am_ wondering why she sought it from you.”

“ _Yes, hello darlings, I’m just as happy to see you as you are – ah ah ah, no paws, thank you –_ _there’s a good boy._ ”

“Well, we have quite a bit in common, I believe,” Sibella replies, smiling politely.

“Oh?”

“We have...” She pauses, eyes flicking to Phoebe, “...similar tastes.”

“ _Are you taking good care of your mistress? Of course you are, of course, you’re_ _awfull_ _y smart, aren’t you?_ ”

Sibella can feel the contempt coming from the other side of that fabric. “Well, in the absence of family, I suppose the duty of protection falls to friends. I suppose I shall see you again, then – Phoebe, dear, do come to the dower house for tea sometime, won’t you?”

“ _Who’s a good b_ \- oh.” Phoebe looks up, simpering. “Of course, Lady Eugenia.”

Eugenia gives a sharp nod, and with a cry of “ _Heel!_ ”, she and her party depart.

Once they’re well out of earshot, Sibella leans over. “Are you really going to take her up on her offer?”

“Well, eventually. Later rather than sooner. It’s not that I don’t like her -” _well, the hounds, at any rate_ “- it’s just there’s a rather large difference in opinion at present.”

“Is that so?”

...Oh. Monty.

“It’s a natural part of the grieving process, really, the need to blame someone,” Phoebe does her utmost to continue smiling, “why, when Henry died, I so often blamed myself. Thinking of all the things I would have done differently, had I known what would happen that day.”

That’s right. She’d had a brother, hadn’t she? “My sincerest condolences, Countess.”

“No, no need. The world continues to turn, with or without him. Although, it does raise a question I have neglected to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think that Monty did it? Answer truthfully, please.”

...Sibella had been trying terribly hard not to think of that.

Regardless of her contradictory feelings about the man, she wouldn’t deny he had the motive. The D’Ysquiths had treated him and his mother with utter contempt, for what crime? Being the child of a loving relationship? And he certainly didn’t lack determination, what with his meteoric rise from that terrace house in Clapham to this grand castle.

But...

“No, your Ladyship. He was with us the entire time. He hadn’t the opportunity to poison the port.”

Sibella hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath until it’s knocked out of her by a crushing hug. She _should_ be listening more closely to what the countess is saying, or determining the best way to extricate herself before she suffocates, but no.

All she can focus on is how much Phoebe smells of flowers.

  


~

  


Quite frankly, she’s perplexed at how comfortable Phoebe is around her.

She won’t deny it’s flattering, mind. It’s simply so unexpected that a wife should be so taken with her husband’s mistress – not that Phoebe knows that part (she thinks). Yet, here she is, fast asleep on Sibella’s shoulder, trusting her so immensely so soon after they’d become acquainted.

They’d sat on the drawing room sofa together, Phoebe leaning on Sibella as she breathed new life into her favourite sonnets. She’d only managed four-and-a-bit before she drifted off. Sibella had noticed as her voice weakened, each word slower and quieter than the last, until nothing but gentle breaths escaped her mouth, and she did absolutely nothing to keep her host awake.

She deserves a rest, Sibella reasons. She’s not sure what Phoebe has to do in the evenings, but whatever it is must be exhausting. The shadows under her eyes and the pallor of her skin are testament to that. Sibella being immobilised is a sacrifice she’s strangely willing to make for Phoebe’s sake.

How easy it would be to take advantage of the poor (rich) dear. One in her position should not trust so unconditionally, should not latch onto the first person to show sympathy, however authentic. So many of Sibella’s troubles would be solved if she did as her husband is expecting she will, to entice the money out of her mark. Despite this, she astounds herself with the fact she holds no ill will at all against the person who _should_ be her biggest rival.

It’s rather curious, the way she feels about Phoebe. She’ll freely admit she can be mercurial at times, and yet her sentiments concerning the countess have been unusually consistent. Though she usually knows what she desires and from who, there’s something… something Sibella wants from this woman, and she can’t put her finger on what it is.

…Well. Nothing she can do about it now. At least, she doesn’t _think_ there’s anything.

Instead, she tucks a wayward strand of hair behind Phoebe’s ear, and closes her eyes.

  


When she wakes, there’s no longer a warm weight on her shoulder. Instead, a note on the table, accompanied by a stalk of small, lily-like flowers. Hyacinth?

_Sorry for_ _dozing off_ _on you,_ the note reads. _You didn’t_ _disturb me while I slumbered_ _, so I_ _returned the favour_ _._ _B_ _y now, I may be in bed and cannot farewell you properly. If the servants are still up at the time you read this, you may ask them to see you out – if not, I’ve had a room arranged on the second floor_. _Pleasant dreams – P._ _N_ _._

Below is a hand-drawn diagram, the room in question marked with an X. Almost like a treasure map, Sibella thinks to herself.

But the treasure doesn’t lie in the guest room, does it?

The lamp on the desk is still lit – that implies the servants are still around, and if one of them spots Sibella, they’ll do as instructed and see her out. However, there are other ways around the castle that are less visible. Phoebe’s told her as such in their tours of Highhurst.

Tucking the flower into her purse, Sibella examines the lone bookshelf. One stands out to her – too shiny, in the dim light, to be leather or cloth. She can’t take it off the shelf either, though admittedly that might just be her.

She gives the false volume an experimental push, and has to stop herself from giggling in delight when the bookshelf spins around like a revolving door. A hallway lies beyond, bare stone and darkness before her. Where could it lead?

She checks the passage is closed before she presses on, one hand on the wall her only guide in the pitch black.

  


After a few missteps and at least two minutes’ search for the lever, she finds the other side of the passage. Her eyes don’t have to adjust when the false bookcase opens.

The lights are out, here, but from the features Sibella can discern, it must be grand in daylight. The embroidery on the rug shines under starlight. A comfy-looking chair by the window, though she can’t make out the colour at the moment, and every metal and wood detail around the room practically glows in the dark.

Could lose the portraits, though. Faces in the night, ghosts judging your every move. Of course, they’re probably ancestral, the D’Ysquiths were likely obligated to keep them. At least the frames were nice.

A whimper.

Sibella’s head whips around. There’s a pair of double doors at the end of the room, one slightly ajar. After a moment, another, softer groan confirms she heard correctly, and her mind immediately goes to -

“Phoebe,” she whispers.

She navigates the furniture as carefully as she can, but she can’t contain the feeling of dread rising up in her throat. How long had she been suffering like this, alone in the dark? Is this the reason she’d been refusing guests after a certain hour? Maybe it’s some sort of illness she’s hiding to keep people from worrying about her – that’s what Sibella (and Monty, she supposes) are supposed to do!

She grabs the handle and pulls – she attempts not to startle anyone, but she can hear scraping and scrambling from the occupant at the first creak of the hinges. A quick peek inside determi _ **NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO N-**_

  


  


~

  


  


  


…

Ouch.

Still dark. Cold. Hard floor. Head hurts. A dull pain at the back of her skull.

...She had to faint in the most uncomfortable position possible, didn’t she?

Now that coherent thought is slowly returning to her, she can establish a few things, at least – she can’t have been out too long, if the sky outside is any indication, she’s still in front of the open bedroom door, and, while she hasn’t been moved, someone has haphazardly shoved a pillow under her head. Somewhat disquieting, but nice nevertheless.

Sibella sits up, wincing as her muscles object to being stuck in such a state for so long. What should her next move be? Apart from slow and inelegant, of course.

She _could_ just… go home. Pretend this bizarre occurrence never happened, and do what she should have done from the very beginning. Then again, the question of what consequence that would have… This is a grave indiscretion, a betrayal of the highest degree! Something like this couldn’t simply be ignored!

Sibella takes the pillow out from the floor, places it over her face, and screams. It makes her feel a _little_ better, but fails to solve her situation.

When she removes it, she finds it’s actually made everything _worse_.

It towers over her – a great black beast, monstrous in both size and form. Its eyes glow in the gloom, its ears pinned back – and yet, when Sibella shrieks in surprise, it cowers and backs away, whimpering.

She hasn’t even gotten off the ground, and Sibella is already light-headed again, her heart pounding so hard and fast it feels like it’s trying to escape. Regardless, she’s committed, now.

Hands still shaking, breath still uneven, Sibella gets to her feet and gives her best smile.

“Good evening, Countess Navarro.”


	3. The Open Palm

There are two things that Sibella realises upon waking – one, she’s not in her own bed, and two, these are not her clothes that she’s wearing.

She is only troubled by them for a moment. She remembers what occurred last night, however much she wishes she didn’t.

All things considered, her host had been quite hospitable, especially after Sibella’s outrageous faux-pas. It _was_ a struggle to try and understand what the countess was trying to communicate, but that couldn’t be helped, could it? And Sibella had figured it out eventually – _here’s a bed,_ _here’s a nightgown,_ _get yourself settled in_. No harm done, except for all of the _other_ harm that she’d done.

Sibella sighs. Sunlight is peeking through the curtains, tinted orange through her eyelids. Presumably Countess Navarro is capable of a verbal conversation now, so it was time for Sibella to see if she shall receive forgiveness, or if her life is ruined in more ways than one.

With some reluctance (that doesn’t entirely relate to her inevitable task), Sibella opens her eyes. Before her is the splendid bedchamber. Not a lot of furniture, besides the incredibly comfortable bed – a rug, some more portraits, a fireplace, and a rather large collection of pillows.

...Pillows? It was dark, admittedly, but she thinks she would have noticed the small mountain of them in the corner. The one Phoebe had so kindly lent her is among them, along with some blankets. Nicely made up for a…

Ahem. Yes. Nicely made up.

After another moment’s self-pity, Sibella gets up and opens the door. On one of the handsome leather chairs she saw last night sits Phoebe, quite human, fully-dressed and reading her dog-eared copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Upon hearing the sound of creaking hinges, she looks up with a carefully blank expression.

“Good morning, Mrs. Holland. Did you sleep well?”

This is a trap, isn’t it? Surely this is all a ruse, this courtesy. She’s just waiting for her chance to pounce.

“Um, yes, Countess Nava-”

“Phoebe.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You may call me Phoebe,” the countess says, “I think we’ve reached that point, don’t you?”

 _Have they?_ “Right. Yes… Phoebe. Quite well.”

“Good. Good.”

There’s a tense silence as Sibella stares at the floor, frantically formulating her apology. She should have planned this more carefully, she knows, but she’d just wanted to get it over with before she became too frightened to leave the bedroom at all. She also knows Phoebe’s watching her – quite small and delicate now, but with the power to make Sibella’s life a waking nightmare.

“You caught me in quite the compromising position last night, I hope you know that.”

“I am aware,” Sibella replies, trying and failing to keep her voice from cracking.

“I suspect there’s something you want to say.”

Sibella nods. Then, sinks to the floor, shaking like a leaf. It’s over. Phoebe will throw her out, now. She’ll never want to see her again. She’ll _hate_ her, and Monty will be _convicted_ , and Sibella will have nothing, _nothing_ left but a man she never loved and the memories of her mistakes.

Phoebe is upon her almost immediately. No viciousness comes, no reprimand. Just two gentle hands angling her face up, and two worried blue eyes.

“ _Please_ don’t fret so!” Phoebe quavers, “I have no desire to grieve you any more than I already have. Despite… what you may believe, I am _not_ a monster.”

“I...” _I’m sorry. Say I’m sorry._ But Sibella can’t get her lips to obey.

“Do you need anything? I’ll move you to the sofa – some water, perhaps? A fan?”

Sibella has no time to process any of that before she’s swept into Phoebe’s arms. What? How – this shouldn’t be possible. Phoebe should have toppled over under the weight, and yet Sibella’s already been deposited onto the sofa before she knows what’s going on. Why on earth didn’t Phoebe do that when Sibella fainted?

...Ah.

Arms. They help.

Phoebe is, again, expectant, hovering a respectable distance away. For all her inscrutability before, she suddenly looks like _she’s_ the guilty party here.

“Thank you,” Sibella mumbles, “I think I am alright, or I will be. Just… need some time.”

“I understand this may change the way you see me, but I hope beyond hope it does not end our friendship. Have I shattered it beyond repair?”

“I...” She takes a moment to collect herself. “I don’t… believe so. I thought _I_ would be the one asking that, in truth, what with my unforgivable trespass.”

“I do believe you’ve gone through enough to atone for that, Mrs. Holland. Curiosity in itself is not a sin, but one must be prepared for whatever they may find.”

That’s a relief – sort of. “I am grateful for your clemency, Count- Phoebe.”

This whole thing is doing her head in. Not just the impossible nature of the countess’ condition, but Sibella’s vain attempts to marry the notions of such a creature and this sweet and gentle woman into one being. Werewolves are supposed to be frightful things, aren’t they? Servants of infernal forces, making meals of the weak and infirm, delighting in their savagery. _Phoebe_ apologises if the maid serves the tea too hot, talks about her garden as if it were her child and giggles at Sibella’s jokes. Are those the actions of a beast?

...Well, Sibella’s sense of humour isn’t _that_ cruel.

Perhaps those stories weren’t entirely based in fact. She can’t imagine Algernon Blackwood or any of those penny dreadful ink-slingers had ever met a _real_ werewolf. She should not be blinded by their preconceptions.

Sibella shuffles down the sofa. The solar isn’t lacking for other chairs, but Phoebe nervously takes the space next to her.

“I must confess, I didn’t sleep nearly as well as I said I did.”

Phoebe blinks. “That’s… not unexpected.”

“I simply couldn’t stop thinking about...” - _why Sibella wasn’t torn to pieces, how and what Phoebe was,_ _those_ sounds _she made_ \- “...when I heard you – you were in pain. I knew then it was not just tragic circumstance that plagued you so, and I thought that it would not do for you to suffer alone.”

Phoebe’s eyes flicker, before allowing herself a soft smile. “Well, I thank you for your concern. It doesn’t hurt that much, really, though I must admit the present frequency does cause some strain.”

“‘Present frequency?’”

“Every night.” Sibella suspected as much, but still gives a sympathetic grimace. “Usually it’s nothing more than a couple of days out of a month. Feigning a mild illness or sudden pressing business can explain that away. Not so, now.”

“Do you know the cause of this… intensification?”

“It’s somewhat difficult to say. I may have mentioned this to you – I cannot shake the feeling something is missing, but I don’t know what it is, let alone where it may be.”

Suggesting it’s her husband is likely in bad taste. Best to verbally skirt around that. “And this condition, was it something you were born with?”

“No. Again, I’m unsure of the circumstances. I was simply unwell several years ago, and then...”

Phoebe’s eyes are suddenly focused on something far away; on what, Sibella does not know. Only that the countess’ hands are now balled into fists, gripping her skirt so tightly Sibella fears she may tear the fabric in her distress.

“…Well. It was a rather upsetting experience, that first time,” Phoebe finishes.

Sibella has no desire to let either of them dwell on that. Instead, she places her hand over Phoebe’s, brushing a thumb over white knuckles, over porcelain-smooth skin. Eventually, fingers uncurl, and Phoebe sighs, resting her head on Sibella’s arm.

Flowers. How sweet the scent is. How enchanting.

“Thank you for your compassion, Mrs. Holland. Forgive me, this must be an awful lot to take in.”

 _Compassion_ is not normally a noun associated with Sibella, but she’ll happily accept the distinction. “You are blameless in this matter, Phoebe – I found exactly what I went searching for. However, if you insist that I use your Christian name, I must ask that you call me Sibella.”

“Sibella...” The whisper sends a shiver down Sibella’s spine. “Very well. Now that’s all sorted, I should allow you to get ready for the day.”

Get ready?

…Oh, _no_.

Sibella had been so lost in contemplation and comforting that she’d forgotten about the state she was in. Oh, she must look a _fright_! To hell with Phoebe’s lycanthropy, _Sibella_ should be ashamed of how little care she took with her appearance this morning!

“Do you need any assistance? I can get Mary in if you-”

“No!” Sibella collects herself. “No, thank you. My corset laces at the front, so no help needed. Besides, I should think it would raise questions, what with the bed made up for me being on the other side of the castle.”

Phoebe gapes, then averts her gaze. “Erm. Yes. True. I shall... leave you to it, then. Breakfast should be ready soon, if you wish to join me.”

“I’d like that very much.”

The countess doesn’t hide her grin that well as Sibella shuts the door. Perhaps she is confident her sentiments of relief and excitement, the joy that everything went better than expected, are mirrored in her guest.

She wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

 

~

 

Sibella returns to Highhurst the next day, much to Phoebe’s surprise and delight.

Sibella isn’t quite sure why she’s so shocked. Even if she was too repulsed by the countess’ malady to continue their friendship, Sibella wouldn’t let Phoebe _know_ that. Lionel’s carelessness has put her in a precarious financial position, why wouldn’t she remain in the good graces of a rich woman who believe she’s of pure intent?

Of course, Sibella _is_ of (mostly) pure intent, for a change. While Phoebe answered _some_ questions with her explanation, she raised several more, like a hydra of mystery. Both of them are largely clueless as to the origin of the affliction, its particulars, and the nature of the mysterious item responsible for it (if it is even a physical object at all). Sibella seeks answers not only for her own sake, but for Phoebe’s as well.

…Is this altruism? Probably not. It feels nice, planning to do good. That’s not completely selfless, so it likely doesn’t count.

Not to mention the rush Sibella enjoys when Phoebe takes her hand. Even if it’s just showing her into the sitting room, it instils a lightness in Sibella’s chest, and she’s not sure why it’s there.

Phoebe’s voice is light, playful. “Have you recovered from your illness, _Mrs. Holland_?”

“Indeed, _Countess Navarro_ ,” Sibella smirks, “I’m a picture of health. It’s a miracle how quickly it subsided.”

“I’m sure your husband is happy to hear that.”

Sibella laughs. There’s no better feeling than being in on a joke.

Phoebe had given clear instructions to the staff last night, unbeknownst to her – if she wasn’t escorted out by eight o’clock, word was to be sent to Mr. Holland that Sibella had taken ill, and was spending the night at Highhurst. He’d shown her the letter on her arrival home, and any concern on his face vanished once she presented _him_ with the cheque.

“He was much happier to see the money for ‘ _medical expenses_ ’,” she scoffs, “I swear, I haven’t seen him so thrilled since our wedding day.”

Phoebe frowns, but elects to ignore that comment. “I take it he didn’t send for a doctor as soon as you came home?”

“Why would he? I told him I’d recuperated, and he was quite eager to believe me. Besides, it’s all a test to see how he invests, isn’t it? If he _doesn’t_ spend it on treating an imaginary ailment, that’s a point in his favour.”

Phoebe doesn’t respond. She appears to be lost in thought, fidgeting with Sibella’s left hand (not that Sibella minds). Perhaps she is trying to commit every detail to memory – fingers, palms, tendons…

…Sibella’s wedding ring.

“Is something troubling you, Phoebe?”

The countess jerks back, as if burned. “Um. Never mind. It’s not a subject that should come up in polite conversation.”

“Elegance and refinement is all well and good, but it often obscures a person’s true self.”

“Ah, well… I was simply thinking. All things considered, I’ve been rather lucky – in marriage,” Phoebe quickly clarifies, in response to Sibella’s raised eyebrows. “I was expected to be wed for property, or perhaps to improve relations between the D’Ysquiths and another family. I was incredibly fortunate to marry a man I love with little consequence.”

“...I won’t deny that.”

Sibella had played the game by the rules, and what had she won? A husband with a singular asset left to him, and good looks could only get one so far. The man she denied for so many years? He has a _castle_ now, a fabulous inheritance – and a murder charge, admittedly, but Sibella is confident that will be water under the bridge within a year. No, she took the safe bet, and lost. Phoebe, a braver woman than she, wagered her reputation and her heart, and she had triumphed.

“Sibella?”

Sibella shuts her eyes, sighing. “Forgive me. You’ve got _me_ mulling it over, now. I will admit this to you and no-one else. While I thought I loved my husband, once, it has been clear for some time now that I never did. I loved only the idea of him.”

“Is there _anyone_ you love?”

Sibella is simultaneously profoundly relieved and deeply saddened that she can answer truthfully.

“I don’t know, anymore.”

“Oh, how _awful_.” Soft, slim arms wrap themselves around Sibella’s waist. “There are very few people on this earth that deserve to live a loveless existence. You are not one of them.”

“You’re certain of that, are you?” Sibella murmurs.

To an outsider, Phoebe’s dismayed expression would indicate Sibella had insulted _her_. “In the short time I’ve known you, Sibella, you have proven to be one of the kindest, most engaging, most considerate people I have ever met! Why, most would have fled or ran to the papers once they discovered -” she draws a shuddering breath,“- what I am, and I see no indication you’d do anything of the sort!”

“That’s true.” At least, that last part is. “This is not worth agonising over, Phoebe. There are better things to spend your energy dealing with.”

“ _Never_ talk about yourself as if you don’t deserve adoration. That is the one demand I have from you.”

How odd it is for someone to encourage Sibella’s vanity. Many a man could attest that it is a dangerous thing to do, yet, she does not feel as if she has the upper hand here. It’s an altogether indescribable sensation – she has felt it before, of that she is positive, but her mind is withholding when, exactly, that was.

A distraction is in order. There had been _quite_ enough emotional vulnerability, this week. Any more, and they could scarcely call themselves English.

Sibella snakes an arm around Phoebe’s shoulders, pulling her closer. “I shall acquiesce to your demands, then. Adoration is hardly a concern, not when _you’re_ so fond of me.”

“...Good.” The countess cranes her neck to look Sibella in the eye. “That wasn’t a joke, was it?”

“Absolutely not. I am eternally thankful for your trust in me, Phoebe. I shan’t take it for granted.”

That smile! That gentle crinkling around her eyes, that softness of her lips as they quirk upwards – how easy it would be to admire that for hours, for their obligations and burdens to fade into insignificance. Sibella can see why Monty fell for her.

…Wait, what? Where did that – but, she’s – even after all that – but she _can’t_ be –

…

…Ohhhh, nooooo.


	4. First Whispered

It is one thing for a married woman to fool around with an unmarried man. It is a similarly scandalous situation for the two to continue their dalliances when that man is wed himself.

 _It is quite_ _ **another**_ _thing for that woman to be attracted to that_ _very_ _married man,_ _**AND**_ _ **his**_ _ **very married**_ _ **wife at the same time**_ _!!_

 

It is a wretched position to be in, to be sure. Sibella is used to being the _object_ of lust, not the one caught in its torrents. How foolish she was to be so ignorant of her own heart, how careless of her not to realise the parallel between her feelings for Phoebe and those she has for Monty. It is far too late to remedy that now, of that Sibella is certain.

When she is with the countess, she is captivated by her gentle voice, her delicate touch, her scintillating smile. Everything is but a pittance, a taste of something Sibella craves, exacerbating a hunger that may never be sated.

When she is _not_ in Phoebe’s presence…

…Well.

It is a very good thing that Lionel spends most of his time buried in his accounts.

She knows she is wrong to feel this way about another woman, to indulge these abhorrent urges. However, it is preferable to being overwhelmed by them. These appetites will not be discouraged by physical or emotional distance – the first is unwise, the second impossible. Sibella already has too much of a stake in Phoebe to simply abandon her to her unnatural fate. She deserves much better than that, and better than potentially being exiled and reviled by polite society. She is worthy of someone of purer intent than Sibella.

Nevertheless, if she provides the aid Phoebe needs, maybe she can atone. Maybe she can be forgiven for her beastly desires.

Or, maybe, this is her own unbreakable curse.

 

~

 

Gorby no longer bothers leaving Sibella to wait in the drawing room. He does still announce her, at the door to the study. As expected, the countess does not refuse the visit.

Phoebe is once again completely focused on her investigation – while the white cotton gloves are not an uncommon sight, the item she’s holding is. A magnificent pendant, gold and ruby, the enormous gem at its centre beautifully complemented by a cluster of iridescent pearls and delicate filigree.

Phoebe must have seen Sibella’s face, as there’s a brief, knowing smile on her own.

“Do you like it? Apparently, it was a favourite of the first Countess of Highhurst – at least, before her untimely death. As it happens, ingesting mercury will _not_ grant you eternal life. Not in that way."

A D’Ysquith family story ending in tragedy? How unexpected. “It’s beautiful.”

“It _is_ your colour,” Phoebe mutters. “I would like to study it a bit more, first, but if you would like it, it’s yours.”

“What?”

“Well, Lady Eugenia doesn’t want it. Perhaps a museum would put it on display. Of course, I could give it to _you_ , and you could sell it – or take it as your own, should your husband invest his money wisely.”

All Sibella can do is stammer wordlessly. That pendant is a much-loved family heirloom. If Phoebe’s right, it’s centuries old, and in practically perfect condition! It must be worth hundreds, no, _thousands_ of pounds, and Phoebe is _just_ giving _it to her_? _How very dare_ _this miserable_ creature _calling itself countess_ _give my possessions away to some self-absorbed,_ _arrogant_ _climber -_

\- Where on God’s earth did that come from?!

“That reminds me,” Phoebe says suddenly, searching the desk drawers, “I should show you what Lord Adalbert left to me.”

“You mean, apart from the castle?”

“Well, Lady Eugenia didn’t mention much else _specifically_...”

The dagger she produces isn’t as impressive as some of the other armaments about the property, but it appears just as cruel. The edge has been well-maintained, quite unlike those on display. This weapon is to be used.

“He left this to you?” Sibella inquires.

“He did indeed.”

“Whatever for?”

“ _Cutting canvas._ ”

It’s the harshest Phoebe’s voice has ever been, that silvery sound now as hard and sharp as her inheritance – though as far as Sibella can tell, it’s not directed at her. The countess is stiff as a statue, staring at one of the ever-present family portraits, a woman in Jacobean dress. The pendant she is wearing is identical to the one on the desk.

“I _do_ hope it doesn’t come to that,” says Phoebe, enunciating every word clearly and coldly, “but this is _my_ home now, and I can refurnish as I so choose.”

“…That’s…true, Phoebe.”

As if a fire had been lit, the chill in the room vanishes. “Oh. Um. Forgive me. I do believe I’m getting awfully severe about… interior decorating.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you like that before,” Sibella notes.

“I didn’t frighten you, did I?”

Sibella can’t help but laugh. “I have far more of a temper than you do, pet.” She is surprised Phoebe is capable of anger at all – though, she is far more used to hot, burning animosity, not the sort of fury that chilled a person to the bone.

“Even so, it was unbecoming. I shouldn’t have lost my composure in front of anyone else.”

“Oh, Phoebe.” She takes Phoebe’s free hand, swings it from side-to-side. “Always so considerate. You needn’t be that careful with me, feelings aren’t to be feared. Better to let them out than bottle them up. You risk exploding, with the latter.”

She’s not being hypocritical, she tells herself. She knows well enough that restraint is the backbone of society, and that it is unladylike to ever be frustrated at anything. Well, the latter is unfair, and the former can be managed. Why, she’s expressing emotion right now, and just holding hands dulls the ache in her chest – when Phoebe squeezes back, that’s a bonus!

“I shall try and be more open with you,” she hums, with a shy smile. “For now, we shall talk somewhere else. Away from _unwanted assumptions_.”

Sibella might be imagining it, but the woman in the portrait appears slightly more insulted as they leave.

 

~

 

Sibella’s suggestion was a mistake.

Not for Phoebe, mind. She had never seemed to know what to do with her hands, as her previous minor affections had confirmed to Sibella. Now she had a whole range of options that had been inadvertently approved by her dear friend, ranging from a simple squeeze to a playful slap to the arm when Sibella says something wicked.

Sibella herself never discourages her. At her very core, she relishes Phoebe’s attentions, as she has always done with those she’s deemed interesting (and the countess is certainly not lacking in that department). However, the far more sensible part of her knows very well how she gets when presented with something she wants, but can’t have. Should this continue, it would no doubt end with her heart unable to take it any longer.

For now, they are at peace. Both of them have retired to the sitting room – a tiny one, compared to some of the other places in the castle, but a favourite of Phoebe’s due to how well-lit it is. Perhaps it could be Sibella’s choice, too, in time. The chaise longue is perfect for lazing in the sun, even when Phoebe takes up the other end. Moreso, in fact.

“Why are you studying it, anyway?”

Phoebe looks over the top of her glasses. “Sorry?”

“The jewellery.” Phoebe has since moved on to a ring – it has a little compartment behind its sizeable gem. “Are you valuing it?”

“Not quite. As unkind as it sounds, it is a very good thing that the first countess died when she did.”

Sibella sits up, intrigued. “Oh?”

“I believe to succumb to accidental poisoning is better than to have been persecuted as a witch. The practice was quite popular at the time, as I’m sure you can imagine – a misadventure such as this would have been far less of a stain on one’s reputation than if her journals had been discovered.”

“A witch? You believe she was an actual, proper witch? So, what, her possessions are magic, or something?”

“ _There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, tha_ _n_ _are dreamt of in your philosophy.”_ Hamlet! Sibella knows that one, and she must have looked pleased with herself, because Phoebe’s eyes crinkle up in that dazzling smile. “Is it so strange to believe there may be a grain of truth in that rumour?”

Well, given that werewolves existed… “No, I suppose not.”

The smile fades, and Phoebe sets aside the ring for a moment. “My logic is, since I have no idea what this missing object is – if it is even an object at all – I should attempt to find a cure in what I know is here. I shan’t do anything evil, if that’s what these journals suggest, but… perhaps, there is something.”

The poor woman looks so dejected. Sibella doesn’t know what exactly these journals (spell-books, perhaps) contain, but Phoebe clearly hasn’t found the cruelty-free answer she is hoping to locate. Not that they probably have such a thing, if this countess thought mercury was the elixir of life.

“But, it is selfish of me,” Phoebe continues, “to place all my woes on you like this. Do not trouble yourself with it, Sibella.”

“I shall trouble myself with whatever I like, Phoebe. I assure you, I will do anything within my power to ease your heart.”

“Well, you can, then. Is there anything you want of me?”

Sibella frowns. “What do you mean by that?”

“I should have thought my meaning was quite clear. Monty and I have more than enough means – name something, anything. You shall have it, and I shall feel like I am not imposing on you so.”

Sibella’s mouth has gone unusually dry. There is something, of course. All she can do is try and focus on anything other than that – but Phoebe is wearing a low-cut dress this morning, and Sibella’s eyes invariably find themselves admiring the alabaster skin, the curve of the countess’s neck, her…

...Charms.

“You look troubled, Sibella. Are you well?”

 _No, I am not. I am far more monstrous than you believe yourself to be. I want_ you _– your heart and your flesh and my name on your lips. I want everything you have to give,_ everything _, and I fear that one day this wickedness will consume what little good is left in me._

“I’m quite all right, Phoebe,” Sibella sighs, “simply… fatigued.”

Phoebe is silent for some time, long enough for Sibella to question herself. Is she truly so transparent? Did her tone betray her? Her face? Perhaps her heartbeat can be heard, the thump in her chest spelling out her confession.

“Rest, then,” Phoebe says, soft as velvet. “May I read to you?”

“Please do.”

Sibella settles herself against the arm of the chaise as best she can, her eyes fluttering closed of their own accord. All she needs to do is focus on the lilt of Phoebe’s voice, and the words of the Bard. She can be separate from herself, not Sibella, with her tangled thoughts and wants. Just a listener.

“ _When in the chronicle of wasted time, I see descriptions of the fairest wights, and beauty making beautiful old rhyme in praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights..._ ”

Just as she is about to let herself go, a hand on her knee pulls her from her reverie. Sibella is firmly back in her own skin, and all of a sudden it is on fire.

“ _Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best, of hand, of foot,_ ” Phoebe’s touch travels up, “ _of lip,_ ” up, “ _of eye,_ ” up, “ _of brow, I see their antique pen would have express’d even such a beauty as you master now._ ”

One finger is tracing patterns on Sibella’s upper thigh, ever so gentle, yet the soft touch belies something more. It moves inward, too far inward to be entirely innocent, and darts back out again. Testing. She’s testing her. She _knows_.

Sibella opens her eyes to look at Phoebe, and her already unsteady breath catches. Again, Phoebe’s expression is impassive, but her _eyes_ – there is a glint in them that Sibella hasn’t seen there before. Almost like curiosity, or eagerness, but there is something darker beyond that. Something Sibella can’t name.

She has never before felt so much like prey.

She sees, out of the corner of her eye, that the book is discarded. Feels the fingers on her jawline, gently turning her head. Smells that perfume – it’s intoxicating, and her mind clouds further.

Phoebe leans in, and presses an agonisingly tender kiss to the corner of Sibella’s mouth.

 

_No._

 

Perhaps she is a bit rough, pulling Phoebe in to capture her lips, but Sibella cannot control herself any longer. She’s caught the scent, now. Shame is thrown by the wayside, far too civilised for this moment, and there is naught but a single-minded desire to take, take, take.

To her shock (and elation), Phoebe does not push away. No, she moves closer still, angling her head and parting her lips just enough – oh, how sweet she tastes! Sibella could just –

A barely-audible growl, and she is pushed back against the arm of the sofa. Phoebe is upon her, teeth at her throat, gentle nips and silken lips. Reality is reduced to only the places where Phoebe presses against her – her chest, the hands on her shoulders pinning her in place, the pressure on her hips where Phoebe is straddling her. Her own arms find Phoebe’s waist, bringing her impossibly closer, arching her back to allow better access. This is everything, and yet it is nothing. She needs more.

The weight of one hand disappears from her shoulder, brushing against her side, and Sibella opens her eyes to see what Phoebe’s doing –

– _Were her eyes gold?_

Phoebe pulls away suddenly, almost falling off the sofa, and – no, they’re blue now, as they should be, and wide in alarm.

“Something wrong?”

“I thought I saw…” Phoebe frowns. “No. I must have imagined it.”

“I see. I didn’t imagine what came _before_ that, then?”

“Um. No.”

Sibella swallows thickly. She had been quite certain of her actions only thirty seconds ago. That is no longer true.

“You were very good,” Phoebe adds.

 _Why, thank you. I’ve practised._ “You… feel a similar way, then?”

“I shall need a better idea of what you mean before I can answer that.”

Oh, she’s going to make her spell it out, is she? Sibella is far too sober for this.

“A certain… attraction,” she bites out, “a physical one, not just a correspondence in beliefs. Is that enough of an explanation for you?”

“Yes, thank you. I think… yes. I do believe that is the case. My, what a thought.”

Sibella is unsure whether or not Phoebe’s reaction is a reason to worry. She isn’t nearly as concerned about about the matter as her companion is. In fact, she seems almost fascinated by the concept, as if Sibella were one of her jewels – although, she must admit, Phoebe appears far more excited at the prospect of studying Sibella than those mere trinkets.

There is an admission on the tip of her tongue, though Sibella knows not what it may be. Regardless, it is never said. The countess’ face goes blank, her eyes are somewhere else.

“The door,” she whispers, “someone’s at the door. Hide your neck.”

Sibella blinks. “My neck?”

“Lipstick. My deepest apologies – where did my spectacles go? It would be awfully suspicious if I were to step on them…”

…Oh, yes. Lipstick _would_ be a problem in this situation, wouldn’t it?

Sibella smooths out her dress, does her best to angle her head so whoever may be knocking cannot see the dark red stain of their dangerous liaison. Her mind, treacherous as it is, immediately begins playing out the worst-case scenarios as if she were in a cinema. It is Lionel at the door, or Monty, freshly released from prison, somehow. Perhaps it is her mother, who must have sensed her sinning all the way from Clapham and had come to admonish her.

It is none of those things, of course. Just a rather plain, but kind-faced maid. She barely even spares Sibella a glance (which mildly offends her, frankly) before turning to her mistress.

“I apologise for the intrusion, My Lady.”

“No, no, Mary. It’s quite all right.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Sibella adds, “Countess Navarro was just providing me with a new appreciation of Shakespeare.”

Mary nods, pointedly ignoring said countess clamping a hand over her mouth. “Mrs. Chard has announced that luncheon is being prepared. Will Mrs. Holland be joining you, Your Ladyship?”

Phoebe turns, questioning, towards Sibella.

“I have no other pressing engagements. If you will have me, Countess, I would love to.”

Phoebe’s eyes sparkle with an unfamiliar emotion, before her attention falls on the maid again. “I suppose that’s a ‘yes’. Thank you, Mary.”

The maid smiles politely, and bows out just as quickly as she came. Once the door is closed, Phoebe ensures that it stays that way by flattening herself against it.

“That went well,” Sibella observes.

Phoebe simply stares. She doesn’t appear to be angry – and Sibella knows what that looks like, now – almost… bewildered. She didn’t think it was _that_ close of a shave.

“If there is one thing I admire about you, Sibella, it is your _consistently careful_ choice of words.”

Sibella smiles innocently, resting her head on her hand. “Well, thank you, but I am sure I don’t know what you mean.”

That elicits a reluctant smirk from Phoebe, and she abandons her position guarding the door to give Sibella the kiss she didn’t deserve at all. This one is rather different than the one they’d shared earlier – Sibella thinks it would not be out of place if cherubs descended from heaven, playing their little harps and festooning the room with garlands.

“There,” Phoebe sighs, “nothing there. Now, shall you behave yourself at the meal?”

Sibella hums. “If you insist, Phoebe, darling.” though, now that she thinks about it… “you mentioned there was ‘nothing there’. What were you referring to?”

“Only the apparitions of an addled mind. I thought I saw something in your eyes, but they are just as they should be. Beautifully blue.”

Sibella always welcomes flattery. Ah, but Phoebe would not be as impolite as she and stop there – she brings Sibella’s hand to her lips, her gaze never wavering from Sibella’s face, and from that moment she has Phoebe pinned down.

A romantic, through and through.

“Come,” the countess murmurs, with a gentle pull on Sibella’s arm, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

Sibella doesn’t think there is anything that can truly do that.


	5. Which Vice Pays to Virtue

This is important. If she wants to survive, everything must be perfect – every move calculated, every threat to be analysed and kept at bay. Her life is riding on this.

That’s why Sibella’s rouge must be flawless on _both_ sides of her face. If it isn’t perfect, well, she might as well give up her social aspirations and live as a hermit in a cave somewhere.

Lady Pebworth has invited her (and Lionel, unfortunately) to a private concert. _Lady Pebworth_. Anyone who’s anyone knows her, and ingratiating herself with that well-known patron of the arts could secure their future – Sibella with the standing she so desires, and, potentially, the financial backing that Lionel is secretly searching for.

Of course, there is another countess she would much rather be spending the evening with, although at this hour Sibella thinks any conversation would be decidedly one-sided. Still, she and Phoebe are in the new, exciting part of their relationship. While the arrangement is similar to the one she had with Monty, there is something exhilarating about it that Sibella can’t quite put a name to. Perhaps it’s because Phoebe shows her things that had never occurred to Sibella before – not just the notion of being with a woman, either.

The makeup brush falls out of her hand at the sound of the door opening. It’s a familiar man, in a familiar overcoat. Fair of feature, dull of wit. Her _dearest Lionel_.

Sibella is reluctant to admit she’s startled by his arrival, even if it is true. It isn’t like him to do anything that surprises her. At least it’s simply a case of being lost in her thoughts, rather than anything less acceptable. Still, he was the one who talked up this event. If he cared that much about it, he should have been home earlier.

“Good evening, dearest.”

Sibella leans in to the kiss on her cheek, as she has always done. “You’re a bit late, love.”

“Yes. Pressing business in Newmarket, I’m afraid.”

Why is it always in Newmarket? It was Newmarket before the dinner, Newmarket two weeks ago. Is Lionel solely in the business of racehorses, now? Whatever happened to his office in The City, to those foreign partners of his? They seemed to be far more profitable – although, Sibella is basing this assumption on her own knowledge of finance, which is to say, absolutely nothing.

As she ensures her newly-acquired pendant sits _just right_ , Sibella sneaks a peek at Lionel’s expression, hoping to find a clue as to what mood this ‘business’ has put him in. He looks…

Well, that’s just it. He doesn’t look… _anything_. Not tired, or frustrated, or pleased – there’s no evidence of any emotion on his face at all. Perhaps he is hiding it from her, as he has hidden their financial troubles, but the notion occurs to Sibella it may be that he doesn’t trust her. He is right to do so, of course, but she can’t help but wonder what prompted him to see the truth _now_ , instead of the moment they exchanged vows.

“Everything alright over there?” Sibella asks.

“Yes.” The word is hollow, and, given that he continues, he must have realised it. “I saw Sir Anthony today.”

“Oh, yes? Is he well?”

“He is. We spoke regarding investments for some time.”

“And they’re all satisfactory, I take it?”

Lionel nods. Too weak to even put a voice to the lie. How in God’s name did he expect to escape the hole he’d dug for himself if he can’t even speak of it? And hiding it from his wife, no less, the one person who would suffer the same as he, should his house of cards collapse!

_Pathetic._

She only sees it out of the corner of her eye, but Lionel’s face finally changes – now, there is the ghost of a frown marring his brow.

“Are you alright, Sibella?”

“Hm? Yes, quite well. Why?”

Lionel opens his mouth to speak, but, after further consideration, closes it. “Never mind.”

“No, no, say your piece. Is there something wrong with my appearance? It wouldn’t do for me to go to the concert looking any less than perfect.”

“You are always perfect, Sibella.” Another lie, he knows it. “I think it was simply a trick of the light, but there was… a flash, I suppose. In your eyes. Just my imagination, I’m sure.”

“Indeed.”

There is an awkward silence between them, until Lionel excuses himself to dress – the very thing he should have done as soon as he entered the house. Only then does Sibella lean over the vanity and scrutinise herself, a feeling of dread rising in her throat.

It can’t have been Lionel’s imagination. Not only is his imagination non-existent, she distinctly remembers Phoebe, someone she trusts, mentioning something about her eyes. It isn’t just a sour expression she failed to hide from her husband (which in itself is cause for concern – why would she slip up now?), it must be something physical.

…There!

Wait, no. That’s just the lamplight… No, she’d moved, that time, the reflection has simply changed. Of course, it _is_ after sunset, and the orange of the light available merely serves to fuel Sibella’s paranoia, rather than providing objective evidence that there’s anything wrong.

Maybe, Phoebe was right about it being nothing, and Lionel is playing mind games with her. He must think he’s _so_ clever, doesn’t he? Not like Sibella obsesses over her appearance at the best of times, he simply _must_ jape while she’s preparing for a vitally important event. It’s just like him.

With a huff, Sibella turns off the lights and goes to hurry Lionel. Lady Pebworth is _far_ too important to be kept waiting.

She fails to notice the yellow-white glint in her pupils as the exits the room.

  


~

  


Gorby, though still strictly professional in stature, simply directs Sibella to the castle grounds instead of bothering to escort her to the drawing room, or to announce her at all. She is trusted to announce herself. The very idea that Sibella should be _trusted_! Truly, it is an honour and a privilege that she will take full advantage of.

Naturally, Phoebe is in her fledgling garden, the only part of the grounds she regularly chooses to visit. It isn’t much just at the moment, as the previous earl and countess much preferred hunting to horticulture, but Phoebe assures Sibella it shall be incredible once everything blooms. That may be true, but for now (and presumably forever), Phoebe herself is the prettiest thing there.

As for the countess, Sibella finds herself shocked to find Phoebe apparently asleep on a bench, lacking the elegant gowns Sibella so admired. No, nothing but a dowdy dress more fitting for a servant than someone of Phoebe’s position, mud-encrusted boots and a straw hat, pulled low over her face. Phoebe should have people to do the manual labour _for_ her, surely! She shouldn’t have to reduce herself to _this_!

…Even so, it does appear that the work has tired her out…

How should Sibella rouse her? It should be gentle, so as not to startle her, but from what angle should she approach? Perhaps from behind, draping her arms over Phoebe’s shoulders and pressing her lips to the crown of Phoebe’s head. Yes, that would be good – oh, maybe she can go low, squeezing Phoebe’s hand and giving her a _proper_ kiss. Waking to Sibella’s face would be _much_ better, she decides, though she doesn’t want to risk getting her dress dirty –

“ _I can hear you._ ”

Phoebe tilts the hat up at Sibella’s sharp intake of breath. There’s a playful glint in her eyes and a sly smile on her face, and it is now clear that Sibella has been had.

“Were you conscious the whole time?!”

“Simply dozing,” Phoebe coos. “I heard footsteps coming up the path. Did I startle you?”

Sibella pouts. “I wasn’t _startled_. It’s merely difficult to wake someone who isn’t asleep.”

“Very true.” The countess stands, and the hand that squeezes Sibella’s washes away any lingering petulance. “Now, how are _you_? Are you well? What of your finances? How was your evening at Lady Pebworth’s?”

Sibella winces.

“…Which one?”

“The concert,” Sibella sighs. “I shall begin by saying Lady Pebworth is a charming hostess, and an artful conversationalist. However, I do believe calling herself an _amateur vocalist_ is an injustice.”

Phoebe frowns. “Oh?”

“Calling her a vocalist at all gives her far too much credit. The first note was supposed to be a high C, not the sound of a cat in heat. She seemed quite taken with me, though, or a least the pendant you gave me, and Lionel managed not to embarrass anyone.”

“Perhaps he shall find himself a new patron.”

…Ooh, now that Sibella thinks about it, that might not be for the best. Lionel seems downright _pleased_ with how much time she’s spending with Phoebe, probably hoping for her to ‘fall ill’ again just so he can see another cheque. Were he to find a more ready source of credit, Sibella fears that his single-mindedness will again focus on obligation – most importantly, the ones Sibella has been able to neglect.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she says, more to herself than Phoebe, “he’s going away on business in a few days’ time. If he’s to find funding, he is more likely to find it there than from the Pebworths.”

“Away on business, you say…?”

“Yes, it will be nice to have the house to myself again.”

“It presents a great many opportunities,” muses Phoebe. “We should talk more of this. But first, I will get changed. I can’t possibly entertain a guest in this.”

Good. Sibella would very much like to see her in more fitting clothing (in both senses of the word). “Do you need assistance? I know your lady’s maid is…”

Sibella trails off as she sees the look in Phoebe’s eyes.

“I simply _must_ get out of these clothes, Sibella,” she murmurs, “but Mary will _not_ be needed. Do you understand?”

Sibella would like to ask whether or not this was the plan all along, when exactly sweet Phoebe had grown so daring, but her mouth has gone quite dry. Instead, she nods mutely, and Phoebe grins.

“Good girl.”

The phrase evokes a curious feeling in Sibella. She thinks she could get accustomed to it.

  


~

  


Now, how did she get here?

It’s all a bit of a blur, really. Some things, Sibella can recount as clear as day, but the rest is all a mess of vague shapes and muffled sounds that refuse to be deciphered.

She remembers… she remembers the flesh. Teeth, tongue, nails, skin. Gentle, all of it, so excruciatingly soft it made Sibella want to cry. Whimpers of pleasure, but she is uncertain of who they belonged to – her or her partner. How odd that the information eludes her.

But, she also remembers Phoebe calling her name, that charming voice cutting through the fog in her head for just a moment before Sibella sunk back into confusion and desire. The third time, _this_ time, it has stuck, and Sibella is forced to contemplate her actions.

“Are you alright?” Phoebe asks her.

She can’t recall why Phoebe is on top of her, now. Not that she minds that much. It’s just, she’s sure it was the other way around when they started…

“I think so,” she says slowly, “you’re here. That helps a great deal.”

Phoebe tucks a stray curl behind Sibella’s ear. “Are you sure? Forgive me for saying so, but you do not seem entirely convinced by your own words.”

That’s probably not hard to deduce. None of this should be happening, none of it – not that it isn’t pleasurable, but…

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

Why does Sibella feel this way about someone of the same sex? Why did she choose to act on (or rather, fail to restrain) those feelings? Why does Phoebe elect to entertain them, and why does Sibella’s mind cloud whenever she does?

Is it love? How she feels about Phoebe is a different sentiment than that for Monty, though the discrepancies are almost imperceptible. She supposes she has felt a shred of this emotion in the past, with actresses and society ladies she’s spied at events, but comparing them to Phoebe is like comparing the flame of a candle to the sun. Perhaps it is nothing but lust, nothing more than the malicious part of Sibella that wants to make things her own, to corrupt those around her into doing her bidding. Perhaps she is going to ruin dear Phoebe, to make her into the monster that, despite her affliction, she is so very clearly not.

But Phoebe does not need to know that. Phoebe would scold Sibella for talking in such a way about herself, for Phoebe only sees the good in people.

_Oh, God._

“Why do you…” Sibella pauses to fortify herself, “why do you allow this?”

A hand runs down her side, over her hip. There is a shade of sadness colouring the countess’s tone. “You mean, our relationship?”

“It’s not that I don’t feel the same way as you do -” _I think_ \- “But, two women… it’s unheard of. Imagine what people would say about you if it came to light.”

“It won’t,” Phoebe replies.

“You’re sure of this?”

The physical weight on Sibella vanishes, as Phoebe moves to the end of the bed. While Sibella agrees the discussion requires a certain gravity, she cannot help but miss the warmth.

“There are two factors here, I believe,” Phoebe begins. “One, it is as you say – an affair of this nature will not be the first thing society will infer from our… familiarity, precisely _because_ we are both women. They will assume a close friendship, conspiracy at the very worst, but not love. Two, I think you’ll agree I have a far more damaging secret, which has been kept safe for many years. This one, too, will be well-guarded. Please, Sibella, of all the reasons you may have to end this, do not choose convention.”

“I’m not ending anything. Not for the world.”

“…I’m glad.”

Now, she _says_ that, but Sibella knows quite well what Phoebe looks like when she’s _truly_ happy. This is not it, and that simply won’t do.

She crawls on all fours to the end of the bed, and her lover does not object when she kisses her – on the lips, of course, on the nose, nor does she protest at the ones peppered all over her face. The latter draws out a delightful little giggle, and restores Phoebe’s smile.

Sibella supposes it must be love, particularly if Phoebe believes it to be so. She’s surprisingly well-versed in such matters. Still, to be in love with two people at the same time… even when one is a w…

…Oh, to Hell with it all.

Sibella may be playing with fire, but at least it keeps her warm.

 


	6. Sins from Ignorance

It’s hers, now. All hers.

Lionel had left for Hampshire yesterday afternoon, and there is no sensation so freeing to Sibella than waking up and remembering she has no husband to suffer through breakfast with. She wastes no time in claiming the place as her own by putting on the gramophone and waltzing about the house.

She remembers a time when Monty had encountered her dancing around the old nursery, back in her parent’s house in Clapham. In on a visit, she thinks, and knowing her, she’d likely hoped he would walk in much like he did. To her satisfaction, he joined in as her partner almost immediately – she has never met a man who takes to opportunity so well.

She recalls him saying to her, “You are a person who shall dance through life, Sibella.” Dear Monty has such a way with words. She likes to think he was wishing her well, that he hoped she’d never have a care in the world for as long as she lived. Always the dreamer.

She can picture him now, in his tailored waistcoat and dinner jacket, his arm firm around her waist for fear of losing her again. Their movements are perfectly in sync, with the music and with each other, as she thought they’d always been. Their hostility, their hardships, they are forgotten for now, and there is nothing but them and the melody.

But then, Sibella spins, and she envisions herself with a new partner. This one is smaller, slighter, and Sibella slows her pace to match her imagined companion. Of course, this does not last long – as the tempo picks up, so too does the intricacy of her steps, for Phoebe always surprises Sibella with how much she knows. She can almost hear that little laugh, feel the heat of Phoebe’s breath as she nuzzles into Sibella’s neck –

There’s a knock at the parlour door. Sibella has to take a moment to reorient herself. So lost was she in her little dreamscape that she forgot where she was, and what is expected of her.

“Mrs. Holland?”

Ah, the maid. This one has only been with them for a few months. Time will tell if she stays for more than six.

Sibella opens the door completely – she has nothing to hide. Not anymore. “Yes?”

“Countess Navarro has arrived. Shall I show her upstairs?”

“If you would. Thank you, Esther.”

She’s a tad early, but that is of little consequence to Sibella. Everything has already been prepared for Phoebe’s visit; the changes in schedule, the menus, the guest bedroom (though Sibella suspects it won’t be used that much), all arranged well in advance to ensure its flawless execution.

The guest of honour appears in the doorway, acting like she isn’t the loveliest thing Sibella’s seen all day, shuffling her feet with a tentative smile.

“Countess Navarro. Thank you for agreeing to visit our humble home. I’m sure it must be a step down from Highhurst.”

“Oh, not at all,” Phoebe demurs, a hint of confusion in her eyes. “It’s a marvellous place – so modern! Wide windows, electricity… significantly less instruments of violent death…”

…Alright, Sibella will pay that last one. “I’ll give you a tour, if you’d like. Esther, would you take the countess’s bags up to her room?”

The maid, hovering behind the countess, gives a slight incline of her head and departs. Only when Sibella’s sure she is gone does she pull Phoebe close and shut the door behind her.

“You don’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to this,” Sibella purrs, and delights in the way it causes Phoebe to blush, “I shall be able to give you all the attention you deserve, away from prying eyes.”

“What about the maid?”

“She and the cook will have the night off, after our early dinner. Just you, and me.”

“You and me,” Phoebe echoes.

She’s still looking around, eyes flickering – always back to Sibella, but taking everything in as if they were in a war zone, as if there is a threat hiding behind every picture frame and potted plant. She is nervous about staying after nightfall, this much Sibella is sure of. For once, she doesn’t take it personally. This is a problem beyond what modern science could account for, and certainly beyond _her_. Nevertheless, Sibella would like nothing more than to erase any doubt from her heart, to show her she has nothing to fear.

But, she can see Phoebe swallowing that fear, and instead she remarks, “I don’t recognise the song.”

“Waldteufel’s _Les Patineurs Valse_ ,” Sibella smiles, “this is the Vienna Quartet’s interpretation. Would you like to…”

The countess takes her hand immediately, and once again Sibella’s fantasies pale in comparison to what the real Phoebe is capable of.

  


~

  


The afternoon had gone decently well, she supposes. Phoebe had greatly enjoyed her visit to Kensington Gardens, a fact that only became plain to Sibella after they’d gotten home. It was such a strange thing to see the difference between the public image of the countess and the Phoebe she’s come to know – while she did quietly rave about the specimens along the Flower Walk, she remained curiously serene whenever there were unfamiliar eyes upon her (and, through some unknown talent, she always knew when that was). No matter how many dogs bounded towards her in enthusiastic greeting, how many sights she desperately wanted to gush about, she allowed herself nothing more than a small smile and polite conversation.

Sibella didn’t ask about the discrepancy. She knows quite well why it was present. A lady must have grace and dignity in every word and movement; to be accepted into society is to restrain oneself, to present an image of amenability regardless of the situation. She imagines, with Phoebe’s noble upbringing, it is likely she was often reminded of this fact throughout her formative years.

Sibella must admit to herself, however, the duality of woman takes on new meaning with Phoebe’s plight.

She’s paced around the hallway, seeking reassurance from her host that she had made the right decision in staying the night, she’s fussed over Sibella’s insistence that Phoebe should use her bed rather than the floor (“Think of the fur! Surely the maid would notice!”), and she’s given Sibella a sad look and a tight hug before banishing her from her own bedroom.

Sibella is in two minds about leaving Phoebe alone. Yes, the half-remembered images from that ill-fated expedition tell her that she should wait in the parlour as Phoebe suggested, but at the same time she wants nothing more than to be with her, to hold her and whisper sweet nothings as she goes through what is surely a distressing experience. It _must_ be. Sibella is close enough that she can hear it, if she takes her hands off of her ears.

Phoebe had said, when she thought Sibella couldn’t overhear her, that she “doesn’t know what she’s done wrong”. That had made Sibella’s heart shatter into a million tiny pieces – the answer, obviously, is nothing, and yet the divine force she has so much faith in has seen fit to steal her family away and condemn her to… this. Sibella can practically see her, wringing her clasped hands, whispered prayers in a breaking voice, waiting for Providence to protect all she holds dear. Waiting, waiting, waiting, and all it brings her is pain.

Sibella lowers her hands, but a _crack_ of what has to be bone sends them right back up again. She doesn’t move, mind. A hundred men couldn’t move her from this spot.

Phoebe will not bear this burden alone.

She begins to hum. Slow, soothing, simple, and loud enough that Phoebe knows someone is here for her.

  


~

  


Compared to some of the other places in the house, Lionel’s _home office_ , as he likes to call it, is fairly unassuming. A simple door with a simple round knob, yet the way her husband describes it, she expects the face of God to be hanging above the mantelpiece.

Sibella looks down at Phoebe. She’s a lot less frightening, now that there’s some decent light on the subject. The paws aren’t quite right, and she’s got what could be described as a mane running down her back, but she is currently doing her best to appear as non-threatening as possible. There is, however, an expectant look in those amber eyes.

“Now, Lionel will notice if anything is out of place,” Sibella explains. “We must not move anything we don’t need to, and what we _do_ touch needs to go back precisely the way we found it.”

“… **?** ”

“Well, I don’t bother to go in here, normally. I fear he will suspect my involvement should the room be different from how he left it.”

Phoebe blinks, uncertain. “ **...** ”

…She can still understand Sibella, can’t she? Surely she can. Sibella spoke to her before, and wolves don’t normally nod in response to a question…

Oh.

“An absence of hands _does_ make searching difficult, doesn’t it?” Sibella monotones. Phoebe looks down at her forepaws, and nods again. “Right. Well, if you need assistance, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

Nod.

It’s not nearly as impressive as the study at Highhurst, but that’s to be expected. One wall is taken up by shelves of imposing tomes, but Sibella knows they’re only there for decoration. The stag head above the fireplace seems to have captured Phoebe’s attention, or perhaps it’s Lionel’s collection of kukris.

“He’s never actually used them,” Sibella reassures her, “he thinks they make him look worldly and well-travelled. I’m not sure who he’s trying to impress.”

“ **...** ”

“I’ll be certain to tell him you find them gaudy. He’ll take _your_ advice on the matter, I hope.”

“ **!-** ”

“I’m joking, dear,” Sibella smiles. “Now, we’re looking for the Book of Accounts for this year – or, for 1908 _and_ 1909\. Businessmen start their new year sometime in April, don’t they?”

Nod.

“Well, that, then. Or perhaps a ledger. That might be a bit harder to find.”

Nod.

Their search doesn’t take that long. There are only a few books that don’t show signs of disuse, and the gold text on the spine denoting the year made their prize incredibly easy to spot. Lionel probably wasn’t expecting this kind of behaviour from his wife, after all – the only person who should need to read it would be himself.

Sibella takes the book over to the desk, Phoebe following close behind her. When she opens it, she is greeted by rows upon rows of neat little numbers, annotated with abbreviations and names, all divided into impeccably-ruled columns. If there was one thing Sibella couldn’t fault Lionel for, it was the care he took with his handwriting. A rather ordinary commendation, true, but credit where credit is due.

… Of course, all this information her husband has so lovingly recorded means nothing to her. That is what she married him for, after all. Thankfully, she has a companion who does – Phoebe rises to put her front paws on the desk in order to get a better view. After a moment’s consultation, she nudges Sibella with her nose.

“Hm?” The right paw gently touches the corner of the book. “Oh, of course.”

Sibella is happy to be of some use, even if it is just for her opposable thumbs. It’s quite simple to fall into a rhythm – a moment of silence, the nudge against her hand, the turn of the page. Sibella supposes there is a risk that the paper should tear, under clumsy claws – such a shame for someone who enjoys books so much. What _does_ Phoebe do with her evenings, then? She must be frightfully bored.

“ **?** ”

Between the next two pages is a loose sheet of paper. It is filled with a haphazard scrawl of letters and numbers, quite the contrast to the immaculate records of the book itself, with blotted ink indicating it has been used on both sides.

Sibella carefully peels the paper from its resting place, making a note of exactly where it lay. Names, it seems. There is only one that Sibella recognises – _Sir A_ _nthony_ _C_ _._ _,_ _£_ _50_. One of the few ‘Sirs’ they are acquainted with. The rest, of those that are more than a simple description, are not immediately familiar to her.

 _Sir Hugh_ _, £_ _5._ _Gil Owen,_ _10_ _s._ _Irish Lass,_ _21_ _s._ _Supervision_ _, £_ _1._ _Pinnacle_ _, £_ _3_ _–_

…

…That _idiot._

“I need a pen,” she mumbles. Phoebe watches on, head slightly tilted, as Sibella repeatedly breaks her own rule in her search for writing implements.

“ **???** ”

“This is for your benefit,” Sibella seethes, still cursing Lionel’s existence in her head. “Please take this list to the Dowager Countess. She might be familiar with them, if my suspicions are correct. She breeds _racehorses_ , after all.”

What sort of imbecile would keep this sort of information hidden in his business ledgers? Is he truly so stupid that he can’t store the information in a more discreet location? Why is this list so short? Has he only recently started recording this? His letter to Phoebe was ages ago! How many pounds has he frittered away that Sibella doesn’t know about?! Idiot! **Idiot**! **She’ll** **tear him apart!**

Wait, what?

“ **!!!!!** ”

Sibella’s head snaps up. Phoebe’s ears are flat against her head, her body low to the ground.

“What’s wrong?” When did Sibella’s voice get so hoarse? She’s only been yelling in her head. “Do you hear something?”

Phoebe shakes her head from side-to-side – _No_ – but still, she turns to leave. Sibella can’t think why. Indeed, she is having difficulty thinking at _all_. She shuts her eyes tight, presses her palms against them, tries to quiet her mind and dispel the red haze from her vision. As much as she wants to run after Phoebe, being in such a foul mood will do nothing to help the situation, not when her companion is so acutely aware of others’ emotions. The very last thing Sibella wants to do is hurt her.

She pulls her hands away from her face, reaching out to replace the list that had caused them such strife. Although, perhaps she should keep it. Give it to Eugenia directly. Let Lionel see its absence. Make him feel a shiver down his spine, the dread of being discovered. Let him feel _hunted_.

At that last thought, Sibella’s hand freezes in mid-air, and a cold spike of fear lances through her stomach. She now knows what frightened Phoebe so.

Her fingernails. Long. Thick. Pointed. Black.

Claws.


	7. Request the Pleasure of Your Company

To say the morning after isn’t entirely as planned is a bit of an understatement. True, Phoebe is still in Sibella’s arms when she wakes ( _that_ part goes as it should), but Sibella is also quite aware that the front of her nightgown is damp, and Phoebe’s eyes are open and red-rimmed. It doesn’t take a university education to connect the two.

“Oh, darling.” Her thumb wipes away the streaks of tears left on Phoebe’s face. The nail has returned to how it should be – clear and perfectly manicured. It remains to be seen if it will stay that way. “I envy how you can make even this look pretty, but you mustn’t fuss so.”

Phoebe can’t even look at her. “I thought… I was getting better. I thought that you were making this easier, but I didn’t consider… Oh, Sibella, what have I _done_ to you?”

“What have you done? You’ve brought me more joy than you know, Phoebe. You’ve made me fall in love again.”

There’s a brief flicker of animation in Phoebe’s eyes, but it is gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “You know very well what I mean.”

Sibella does, but she has no answers. She’s quite unaware of such an illness being transmitted like this – in the stories she’s skimmed over, it is a curse, sometimes a dark boon, or exceptional circumstance that causes men to become beasts. It cannot be spread by simple proximity, can it? Why do the symptoms differ so greatly between patients?

“Let me put it this way, then. If this is somehow your doing, was it your intention to do so?”

“Absolutely not!” The countess cries. “I would never – I didn’t know that I _could_ -”

“Then I forbid you from blaming yourself. This is simply another note for your records, an occurrence that may not even be replicated.”

“You cannot be certain of that. What if my mere presence is making it worse?!”

Sibella simply smiles. She presses a lingering kiss to the crown of Phoebe’s head. Then, to her brow, her nose, and finally her lips. It is only then that Phoebe relents. The reciprocation is feeble at first, but the kiss quickly grows feverish, as if Phoebe fears it shall be the last time they ever do so. It tastes of tears. Of desperation.

In truth, Sibella does not have a quick-fire response to Phoebe’s suggestion. This curse; if it works the way she thinks it does, the very idea of it makes her blood run cold. She _likes_ being herself, the vast majority of the time. She’s gorgeous, and witty, and captivating and graceful and all the other things Phoebe and Monty have said she is. To lose all of that, to succumb to an animalistic line of thinking she never believed she could be capable of – that terrifies her.

Of course, she can’t bear to lose Phoebe, either. Their courtship had been rather swift, and undoubtedly unconventional, but Sibella would not change one thing about it. Phoebe is extraordinary, the finest and most precious thing Sibella has ever had the chance to put her hands on – Lionel’s ‘wealth’, the extravagances she used to place such value in, they pale in comparison to a true treasure.

Sibella can feel the countess’s iron grip on her nightgown, keeping her close, her breathing ragged and uneven. She is vulnerable. Bare.

In both senses of the word, Sibella remembers.

“Please,” Phoebe whispers, “please…”

Sibella’s fingers ghost down Phoebe’s side. “Please, what?”

The countess’s lips move, but no sound escapes. Her eyes flicker. Perhaps she doesn’t know. Perhaps she does.

“You won’t be rid of me that easily, if you’re wondering. I’m not so readily dissuaded by potentiality.”

“But-”

“Tell me, Phoebe,” Sibella says, as soft and soothing as she can. “What would cause you more pain? The _possibility_ that I may worsen, or the _certainty_ of my absence?”

Her knee slips between Phoebe’s legs as she finishes, and Phoebe finally, _finally_ looks her dead in the eye. Sibella cannot decipher what emotion she’s displaying – only that it is raw, powerful, and perhaps just a little unhinged.

“Sibella...”

“I won’t go any further unless you wish it. What is it that you want?”

“…You,” Phoebe whimpers, “always you. _I desire, and I crave_ – and I shouldn’t, but I do.”

That sounds familiar.

There’s a strange feeling in Sibella’s chest. But, she has no time to dwell on it, for there are hands in her hair and lips on her skin, and nothing matters but the sound of Phoebe crying out her name.

 

~

 

There have been no new developments in the past couple of days, much to Sibella’s relief and Phoebe’s wariness. Not that Sibella expected there to be. She has a fairly good idea of what caused the incident – she was angry at her husband’s carelessness, yes? All she had to do to prevent any further aggravation is not to think of him.

Not think about her husband.

Who she lives with.

Whose name she shares.

…

That’s fine. She can do that.

Of course, as she says that to herself, Sibella returns home from her latest visit to Highhurst to find Lionel in his usual chair, talking to a man she does not recognise.

This stranger – she has never seen someone so well-suited to middle age, to the point she cannot imagine him younger, nor older, than he currently is. His greying hair has the suggestion of a receding hairline, and his equally wiry beard does not quite hide his distinct lack of chin. While the clothes he wears appear expensive, they aren’t tailored, too loose in some places and too tight in others.

Lionel glances up, then jumps to his feet. “Sibella!”

“Lionel, dear!” She accepts his quick kiss gracefully, well-practiced in feigning enthusiasm. “You’re home early.”

“It all went better than expected, don’t you worry. May I introduce our guest, Mr. James Morton?”

The stranger, Mr. Morton, rises. She’s seen that look in men’s eyes before, seen that smirk. When he presses his lips to the back of Sibella’s hand they’re cold, wet, and they linger for long enough to make her stomach churn.

But, she says nothing, for Lionel says nothing. She keeps her smile locked on her face, keeps herself poised and pleasant, as she’s been trained to do.

“ _Charmed_.”

“Mr. Morton is a business colleague of mine from Hampshire,” Lionel explains, sounding rather pleased with himself. “He has quite a bit of work to do in London, so I offered him a place to stay for a week or so.”

Sibella is suddenly reminded of Mr. Johnson, the boarder Monty’s mother took in after her husband died. “How thoughtful of you, Lionel. Mr. Morton, I hope you find the house to your satisfaction.”

“Indeed I do,” Morton replies (his breath smells of something _foul_ ), “and it is all the more lovely for your presence. I think I shall enjoy my stay here.”

Lionel beams. So bloody proud of himself, isn’t he? Sibella feels bubbling, boiling rage burn in her throat, but pushes it down with prejudice.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have some letters to answer. Welcome again, Mr. Morton.”

Thankfully, that excuse is entirely true. Not that she’s going to get around to it anytime soon.

 

Mr. Morton, in a marked contrast to her husband, is a talkative chap. That would only be a point in his favour if he were interesting, and unfortunately he falls at that hurdle. Prattling on about politics, which company is doing what, and questions, questions, questions, _always_ about Sibella. What lipstick is she wearing today? What is she doing in this evening? Is she a good wife? Do you think she will be a good mother? Where in the house is her bedroom?

Lionel is either too ignorant to grasp the implications or is deliberately ignoring them, despite Sibella’s strong objections. It begs the question – how much would he be willing to overlook for the sake of his livelihood? How much does Sibella _really_ mean to him? It infuriates her.

It frightens her.

A week or so, he had said. That was likely a lie to placate her, unless Morton plans to pay through the nose for the guest room. There’s no question that Sibella would lose her temper with one of the men long before their boarder in all but name departs. If her supposition is true, what would happen, then? Would she be discovered, and end up carted off to a laboratory somewhere, or would she…

No. Her mind is her own. She wouldn’t… _kill_ someone. Not her husband. Not with her bare hands.

On that note, Sibella looks down at her fingernails. Nothing.

What solutions had Phoebe found in the first countess’s journals, again? A concoction of wolfsbane? Given how the author’s life ended, death might be the cure provided by drinking that. What was the other option – ah, yes, murdering _one_ man _twice_ , which involves a skill set neither she nor Phoebe were willing to study, should it even be possible.

Perhaps a more mundane solution. She could stay at Highhurst for a while, minimise how long she has to be in their company. Ah, but Lionel may wonder what’s wrong, and there are quite a few things that he will object to that cannot be discovered under any circumstances.

Still. A visit wouldn’t hurt. To be trapped within these walls, and within her own head, would do far more harm than that.

 

~

 

Sibella’s return to Highhurst brings startling news – the Dowager Countess has invited her to afternoon tea.

It’s quite the breach of etiquette from such a well-bred lady. The woman shouldn’t be accepting guests at all, not so soon after Lord Adalbert’s death. A widow should be in strict seclusion during this period. Though, if Sibella is honest, she would be awfully bored if _she_ had to sit around the house for three months, thinking about how sad she’s supposed to be. And lonely. _Very_ lonely.

Perhaps a _slight_ bucking of expectations would do the dowager some good.

“Well, I fancied I should need to invite you if I ever wanted Phoebe to visit, joined at the hip as you two seem to be,” Eugenia sniffs as her maid pours the tea. Such fine china on display, delicate little cups, eggshell-thin saucers and plates. Sibella is concerned it will break if she touches it, like it knows she shouldn’t be here.

“I meant no offence, Lady Eugenia,” Phoebe replies. “I’ve simply been unwell as of late – I didn’t want to impose upon you at such a time.”

“My dear Phoebe, you have never been an imposition in your life! Don’t you agree, Mrs. Holland?”

“I do. But, I imagine Phoebe didn’t want to worry you, that’s all.”

The current countess nods emphatically.

Eugenia narrows her eyes. “That _does_ sound like something you would do.” She takes a sip of her tea, then leans forward with a glint in her eye. “I trust it is not contagious, what with Mrs. Holland getting so _close_ to you.”

Phoebe pales. Sibella feels her own stomach drop, but she is sure to keep her face from displaying that. It might be nothing at all. Simple teasing from a relative.

“How are you finding the dower house, Lady D'Ysquith?” she begins, desperation on the edge of her voice.

“Hm? Oh, yes, yes, all well and good. A lot easier to heat, and the décor is far more agreeable.”

Sibella glances at the wolf’s head mounted on the wall, because of _course_ it has to be a wolf’s head, doesn’t it? Probably as old as the place itself, given the missing patches of fur and the imperfections in its glass eyes.

“I’m pleased to be free of those accursed portraits,” Eugenia continues. “The constant reminder of the sordid D’Ysquith history, and of course they judge you for going about your life differently than they did, don’t they, Phoebe? Even the horrid ones do it.”

Phoebe makes an affirmative noise, still chewing on a biscuit.

“Forgive me, Your Ladyship. The ‘horrid ones?’”

“Oh, yes, some of them were right brutes. I believe you’ve heard about the second earl, but there are others. There’s Hendrick D’Ysquith, he burned down a monastery over a dispute with the abbot. Obsession D’Ysquith, her name turned out to be quite prophetic, oh, and then there’s Ethel. I need not mention him.”

“You’re correct, Lady Eugenia. Not while we’re eating,” Phoebe shudders.

This piques Sibella’s curiosity, naturally, but if the D’Ysquith family has taught her anything, there are some things that are better left buried. She stays silent, and sips her tea.

“It’s a shame. How even those with the divine right to rule, the supposed _nobility_ , can be so savage and vicious. At least the poor have an excuse for such behaviour.” There is a long pause, before Eugenia adds, “No offence intended, Mrs. Holland.”

Why would Sibella feel insulted? She’s never been poor. “No offence taken.”

“Why must we constantly defy that which makes us human? The laws, written or unwritten, that ensure civilisation continues to function. To flout them in preference of greed, wrath, and lust – that is what makes a beast of men.”

Sibella doesn’t _think_ that’s directed at her, but this isn’t the sort of thing that should be discussed over tea and biscuits. Especially _this_ particular line of examination – there is no way Lady Eugenia could know, is there? Phoebe believes she doesn’t.

“I respectfully disagree, Your Ladyship,” she says. “Consider your hounds. They understand rules well enough – sit, stay, heel. Men learn rules in a similar way when they are young, through praise and punishment, before being introduced to law. Wouldn’t you say so?”

The dowager is not offended in the slightest. Only mildly amused, which is more concerning. “Are you comparing people to dogs, Mrs. Holland?”

“I am merely suggesting that regulation does not necessarily define humanity, My Lady.”

“My hounds know their place because I, a _human_ , taught them so.”

“There are hierarchies in the wild, aren’t there?”

“I think it’s love,” remarks Phoebe.

Both of the other women turn to her. Sibella catches Eugenia rolling her eyes – though, it is not out of irritation, as she’s seen in the past with Lord Adalbert. More like the fond exasperation a parent might express with a child.

“Animals act on instinct, yes?” Phoebe continues, “The instinct to protect their young, to pick the most attractive or physically impressive mate. Affection based on anything more than instinct, that’s a distinctly human. A peahen doesn’t choose the nicest male, or the one that makes them laugh, or the one that shares their interests.”

“Yes, it picks the one with the finest plumage.” Eugenia turns to Sibella for a moment. “A pity I haven’t met your husband. He might make for a fine rebuttal. Well, what would you call _Percival’s_ affection for you, Phoebe, dear?”

Phoebe gives the hound resting its head on her lap a scratch behind the ears. “Dogs love in their own way. Not like humans do.”

“What do _you_ think, Mrs. Holland?” Eugenia asks pointedly.

Sibella looks down at her teacup. It’s almost empty, a few dregs swirling around the bottom. She’d never thought that deeply about it, really. The line between human and monster always seemed rather clear – one was one thing, one was the other, never to be confused. But recent events – not just the night Phoebe had visited – have brought that into question.

She’s never considered Phoebe a beast. There _was_ some confusion upon Sibella’s discovery, yes, but once she regained her senses Sibella had not been shaken in her belief that Phoebe is incapable of barbarity. Regarding herself, however… she acknowledges she’s been less than kind, less than a lady in the past. Is this an extension, a magnification of what is already present?

“I think… awareness,” she says slowly. “Animals never question why, or how. They aren’t prone to introspection. People can obey the law, or question it. People fall in love, and they know what it is they are feeling. Beasts act on instinct, and not thought.”

There is a comfortable silence as the others think this over. Then, the dowager speaks.

“A practical line of thinking for a practical woman. I can't fault it, for now. Shingle, more tea, please."

Sibella must admit, she flushes a little at the strong approval in Eugenia’s tone. It worsens when Phoebe puts a hand on her knee, and squeezes. Congratulations? Reassurance? Or, perhaps it is a promise of something to come.

Time will bring her an answer, one way or another. For now, she can allow herself to enjoy the company.


	8. The Height of Indecency

There’s a grandfather clock in the corner of the drawing room. Rosewood. Beautiful carvings, inlays, artwork on the base, an ostentatious display of wealth. Always wound, always ticking. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Sibella cannot decide whether she should keep it with her always or smash it to splinters, but it is certainly one of the two extremes.

It’s the only sound in the house right now. The only thing grounding her to this reality. She sits in one of the leather chairs, staring at the dying embers in the fireplace, perfectly still. She doesn’t know why, exactly. Only that she needs to focus on something, _anything_ else. Not how Lionel will react. Not what she’s going to tell Phoebe.

“My lady?”

Sibella does not jump, but the sudden snap of her head towards Esther seems to startle the poor girl.

“The tea is ready,” she goes on, what little confidence she has now absent, “shall I bring a cup to Mr. Morton?”

Sibella heaves a heavy sigh. “I suppose so. It certainly would be poor form on my part if he were to go without.”

Esther nods, but stays where she is.

“That means ‘yes’, dear,” Sibella quips. “It will get cold if you stand there gawking.”

“I heard your row before, my lady.”

Sibella stiffens, and prays that is the only sign of distress she shows.

“Did you, now?”

“Well, I-I heard raised voices,” Esther stammers. “Couldn’t make out any of the words. Sounded nasty, mind.”

“It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t hear, Esther, it will not do for you to eavesdrop.”

Esther has suddenly become very interested in her shoes. “Yes, my lady. I just wanted to check you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” Sibella lies. “If you must know, Mr. Morton was… impolite. I made my displeasure with his behaviour known, and he stormed off to his room. That is the long and the short of it. Nevertheless, he is a guest, and I shall treat him as a hostess should, even if he does not return the courtesy. I will speak to Lionel about Mr. Morton’s conduct when he returns.”

“Yes, my lady,” is the relieved reply (Sibella briefly wonders whether she is the only one _affected_ by their guest), and Esther departs. The _lady_ of the house is left alone, again.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

She’d been calm enough, hadn’t she? Was the display of irritation convincing? Doubt besets her, and she knows in her heart any return to normalcy will be impossible once Esther opens that door. If Sibella forbids her from doing so, however, that will raise questions when they _do_ find him. Feigning ignorance is her best hope, for no-one will think her capable of what occurred.

So, she listens for the sound of footsteps. For the sound of the door opening.

For a scream, and the crash of a serving tray.

For Sibella knows very well that Mr. Morton is dead.

 

~

 

Lionel wasn’t home, yet. Sibella knew he wouldn’t be, but a part of her hoped she wouldn’t have to be eating dinner alone.

Well, that was the problem, in essence. Being the only one at the table was something she could cope with, but she _wasn’t_ alone. Mr. Morton was there, trying to catch her eye every time he licked his lips. He did seem to behave himself a _touch_ more if her husband was present, and Sibella usually counted on that.

But, no. Once again Lionel had disappointed her by going off to bet on the horses, or out drinking with his friends, or perhaps he was genuinely working late, as he claimed he was. Regardless, the outcome was the same – as she had no engagements that evening, thus she was obligated to remain alone to tend to her guest. Mr. Morton knew this quite well.

He came out of his room some time after dinner, with the smell of alcohol apparent along with his usual scent just as Sibella was walking down the hall. In doing so, he blocked off much of the corridor, leaving Sibella unable to move past him. She hazarded a guess that this was planned.

“Is there something I can assist you with, Mr. Morton?” she asked, flatly.

“Not assist, exactly,” he replied with a self-satisfied smile, “or perhaps it is. Would you be so kind as to join me in my room for a glass of sherry?”

 _Oh, please, no._ “I don’t see why we couldn’t enjoy it in the drawing room.”

The smile widened. “I think you know why.”

Sibella had her suspicions. The acknowledgement that must have flickered on her face was all that was needed to embolden Morton. He slid his arms around her waist. The stench of tobacco and the sting of alcohol that emanated from him was overwhelming, and she struggled to keep her face impassive.

“I am a married woman, Mr. Morton.”

“And?”

“And _you_ are not worth risking my marriage over,” Sibella snapped, before mentally chiding herself for the revealing comment. “Think of what your dear friend and colleague, _my husband_ , would think of it.”

“My friend? Awfully presumptuous to consider him my friend. Your husband need not find out about this.”

“And if he does?” _If I tell him? If I get him to throw you out of the house? What will you do then?_

Morton grinned. “He _needs_ me, Sibella. He won’t have sudden attack of morals when his life is on the line.”

“…What are you implying?”

“His precious business. He didn’t sell as much product as expected last year. The market hasn’t dropped enough for him to make a profit. He’ll do anything he can think of to keep his place, anything that might net him a windfall. All for you.”

Sibella scoffed. “For _me_?”

“He _knows_ you’ll leave him without him funding all your dresses and outings. Is he wrong?” Her silence was his answer. “Now, if you won’t do it for me, will you do it for him?”

“Why on _earth_ -”

“Now, don’t be selfish, dear,” goaded Morton, tightening his hold, “I’m paying quite handsomely for the pleasure of your company.”

With that foul implication, the mere suggestion that Sibella was a _thing_ that could be bought and sold, the last lingering thread of her composure _snapped_.

“You wi **ll not touch me,** _ **pig**_.”

It wasn’t as much of a feral growl as she had expected. It was, undeniably, still Sibella’s voice, but with a jagged edge. Louder, rougher, with a rumble like thunder underneath her words. She watched as Mr. Morton’s smug smile faded from his face.

“What did you call me?”

Sibella was unfazed by his glare, to her surprise. An awful lot was on the line, that was true, but there was something within her that refused to capitulate. Something demanded that she cow this man into submission, that she _could_ , it ran through her veins and prickled under her skin and every single inch of her _ache_ _d_ with that primal need.

This was what she had feared, and it was _wonderful_.

“ **I think you heard correctly,** ”she snarled, baring her teeth (or perhaps it was a wolfish grin, she wasn’t sure of herself anymore).“ **Do you think** **me** **a piece of meat,** **hmm** **? A doll you can manipulate however you see fit? If anyone is the meat here,** _ **sir**_ **,** **it is** _ **you**_ **.”**

It must have been showing. There was no indignation in Morton’s eyes, now. It had been washed away by freezing terror. He stepped back and tried to flee to his room, but he was unsteady on his feet. Sibella seized his wrist, and – yes, there they were, her claws digging into the sleeve of his jacket. She would tear it, for certain. Good. He deserved nothing less.

“Unhand me!” he cried. “Unhand me, you wicked creature!”

“ **It’s n** **ot fun, is it, Mr. Morton? Being trapped, alone with something that hunts you,** **t** **hat frightens you, that makes you feel like prey. How** _ **awful**_ **it must be.** ”

Morton pulled his free hand back, clearly in an attempt to strike her, but Sibella slapped it away before the blow could land, and squeezed his wrist as a warning – too hard. What must have been bone splintered underneath his skin, distorted the limb, but Mr. Morton did not scream. No, nothing but a pathetic little mewl of pain escaped his lips, something Sibella was not sure she was grateful for.

“There’s...” Morton stopped to try and control his breathing, “you want something, don’t you? In exchange for my life, I’ll give you whatever you desire.”

Sibella tilted her head ever so slightly, her gaze never leaving his. “ **Do you think it will be that easy?** **Lionel should have told you I am not so readily satisfied.** ” She paused, thinking. “ **Although, I suppose I** **can** **ensure** **you learn a lesson from this.** ”

Morton managed a frightened, questioning whimper.

“ **You are an invader. A predator. Stalking** **your victim** **, cornering them and demanding your pound of flesh.** **This will not happen to any other woman** **. I will** **guarantee** **it.** ”

“...”

“ **I** **will give you ten minutes to leave, Mr. Morton. Should I see you after that time, I will stop your eyes from wandering again by tearing them out. Do you understand?** ”

“...”

Sibella tugged him forward by his broken wrist, so they are less than an inch apart. “ **DO YOU UNDERSTAND?** ”

Morton failed to respond. No, instead, his legs gave way. The only thing keeping him from crumpling to the floor with a heavy _thud_ was the hand holding his arm.

It was only then Sibella realised he wasn’t breathing.

 

~

 

She tells the police this: they had an argument over Mr. Morton’s vulgar suggestion, and she had won the war of words.

That bit is important. Sibella makes sure the constable writes it down.

After they had parted ways, she had heard a thump from the guest room, and assumes he died some time between the sound and her maid finding the body in his chair. She is unsure how long that was – perhaps half an hour, at most.

The truth is, once the appropriate senses of horror and shame had returned to her, she had acted quickly to provide herself an alibi. She dragged the body into the chair in the guest room – he’d died from fright, a heart attack, yes? So, Sibella had reasoned, if she staged it so it appeared the attack occurred _after_ the altercation, then no suspicion would fall on her. His heart must have been weak well before Sibella had become involved, for it to fail like that. She couldn’t possibly be held responsible for something she didn’t know about.

The hole in the guest room wall, however, that _was_ her. Not that she tells anyone that, mind, that would defeat the purpose. How else was she to muddy the waters around Morton’s broken wrist? She’s picked up enough from her father to know the bone shouldn’t break like that from punching a stone wall, let alone one of plaster, but there _would_ be questions if she did nothing.

The police seem to accept the story, too. Just like that. Esther would likely support it, given what Sibella has said. How simple it all seems. How frightening that she is not as troubled by what is essentially a murder than she should be.

Ah, but now is not the time to brood. She shall have her emotional breakdown later, when she doesn’t have company.

She hears the front door open and close. Voices, male. One she recognises.

Lionel appears in the doorway, his overcoat sodden with rain and his face clouded with confusion.

“What’s happened?”

“Oh, Lionel,” Sibella laments, her despair not entirely fabricated, “it’s awful. Simply _awful_.”

The constable looking after her stands. “Perhaps we should talk outside – Mr. Holland, is it?”

“It is,” Lionel replies, still baffled.

“The matter is one of some delicacy, and I do not wish to distress the lady any further.”

The _lady_. Ha.

She barely has time to ruminate on that before Lionel returns, somehow looking even more dishevelled than before.

“Have you moved his things?!”

Sibella frowns, still somewhat lost in her own thoughts. “What?”

“Have any of his things been moved? Did you take anything? Did the maid?!”

“Why on earth would either of us do such a thing? No, of course not.”

Lionel’s reaction is not what she was expecting. Instead of relaxing, instead of that glaze of ignorance returning to cover his eyes, he stiffens, and goes to climb the stairs.

Sibella shares a look with the constable.

“If there is something in there of import,” she says, “he’s done a poor job of hiding that.”

“As you say,” the constable mutters. After another moment’s thought, he follows her husband to the upper floor.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Sibella rises from her chair to pace around the room. So, now that the policeman is keeping her husband from committing crimes, she’s meant to think about what she’s done? How rude of them. How… how utterly inhumane.

It is only today that she has been possessed with this particular strain of restless energy, and she cannot determine its exact cause – Mr. Morton’s demise, or the circumstances that induced it. This feeling, she knows it is not simple anxiety, certainly not boredom, it is something altogether different from what Sibella has experienced in the past. She balls her fists, nails digging into her palms. Whatever this sensation may be, she should be better than it. It’s a necessity, considering the scandal that’s likely to unfold, even if Lionel _doesn’t_ do something stupid in front of law enforcement.

Had Mr. Morton earned his fate? He _had_ deserved a good scare, oh yes, some incentive to end his licentious ways – but death? Maybe, but it wasn’t Sibella’s place to provide it. He was a guest – _if she fail in any way her obligations as hostess to a guest_ (and _not killing him_ is definitely one of them), _she shows herself to be ill-bred and ignorant of the first principles of politeness._

…Manuals of etiquette aside, if Sibella hadn’t taught him a lesson, who would? Not Lionel. Not his colleagues. Not polite society, provided he had remained in the realm of plausible deniability. To point out an indiscretion is, in itself, an indiscretion, and as a lady Sibella cannot afford to be so careless.

At that thought, she freezes, one foot still raised. Closes her eyes. Opens them.

Sets her jaw, and tries not to cry.

It's far too late for that, now.

 

The police finish their investigation. They remove Mr. Morton’s body, and his belongings, much to Lionel’s chagrin. Esther gives her a fearful look, then sets off home. Sibella must remember to give her something for her trouble. A good reference, perhaps, should she inevitably decide to resign.

Sibella can feel her husband’s gaze upon her as they head upstairs. She can smell his sullenness as she readies herself for bed. She can hear the despondency in his voice when she bids him goodnight.

Not that she thinks either of them will sleep.


	9. Costly Thy Habit

Perhaps it’s just her paranoia talking, but there is something different about the way people look at Sibella as of late.

She remains the same, she believes, at least in the way she carries herself, but it is possible that there is a different light in her eyes, a sharpness in her smile she cannot quite conceal. Thankfully, this may simply be attributed to the stress from Mr. Morton’s unexpected heart attack – it is not appropriate to gossip about a family’s private affairs, but that does not mean it does not happen. Several society regulars have approached Sibella to offer their condolences, or to comment on how frightfully rude it was for the man to die in someone else’s house without notice.

There are some who dare not approach at all.

The way they look at her, the sensation is quite the opposite of how attention used to make her feel – this isn’t mere admiration, not simple appraisal of her worth, she’s felt _th_ _ose_ a thousand times before. For some, it is something not unlike awe, men and women pressing closer or staring for longer than is strictly suitable, which Sibella does not care for one bit. For others, it is tension, unease, hanging so thick in the air that Sibella often finds herself choking on it.

Somebody feels hunted. She is not sure who it is most of the time – her, or them.

 

 

~

 

She doesn’t even get to _say_ anything, when she sees Phoebe next.

Sibella had planned it all out. She would waltz in to the library, or the study, or the solar, wherever the countess happened to be that day, and Sibella would greet her with a gentle squeeze of her hand and a kiss on the cheek, for Phoebe loves a delicate touch. She’d enquire as to Phoebe’s well-being, how her garden is coming along, whether there’s any news from the barrister representing Monty – then, Sibella would ask about Phoebe’s search for a cure. _I simply want to help,_ Sibella would say, or at least something to that effect. _I w_ _ant_ _to provide you with a little more freedom_ _, that’s all._ _A little less worry,_ _out of the goodness of my heart, because I_ am _good, remember?_

Of course, none of that occurs. The second Phoebe lays eyes on her, her face falls, and Sibella’s heart quickly follows.

“What happened?”

Sibella had checked herself over several times before she’d left this morning. It would be dangerous not to. She’d been proud of how well she’d applied her makeup, even if she is proud of it every single day – you would only be able to see the shadows beneath her eyes if you were looking for them.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Sibella replies breezily.

“You just look so _worried_.” At Sibella’s frown, Phoebe ducks her head. “Forgive me, I may be reading too much into things. But, you seem unusually, ah, _focused_ at present – especially your eyes. I feel like I might catch on fire, should you continue to stare at me so intensely.”

She means that last part as a joke, if the little giggle and awkward smile is anything to go by. Sibella wants to laugh if only to encourage her, but only manages a crooked grin. She cannot trust herself not to whimper instead.

She could lie. Phoebe could remain in her own little world where nothing (well, not _this particular thing_ ) is amiss, and Sibella won’t have to admit she was wrong.

“What will you do if I tell the truth?” she asks.

“I will listen,” Phoebe answers, “and I shan’t judge you.”

“And if I deserve to be judged?”

“I’m hardly in a position to decide that.”

So, losing her internal struggle to deny Phoebe, Sibella tells her everything. Well, most things. The bits she remembers, about the argument and the… yes. She needs to pause several times while recounting the events, now unable to evade the reality of her situation. By telling someone else, Sibella has confirmed to herself that it happened. A man, however vulgar he may have been, is dead because she was unable to conduct herself like a lady. It’s not her right, to mete out punishment like that. It’s not _her_.

As promised, Phoebe sits silently. She does not ask any questions. She does not need to, Sibella thinks, for her expression shows she understands perfectly. Horror and pity, accursed _pity_ , a new mixture of the two every time Sibella stops to draw a fortifying breath. Her fingers and arms twitch every now and again, as if she wants to reach out and grab Sibella – but, she settles for holding Sibella’s hand instead. Sibella, too, is conflicted about it; to continue without comfort would be torture, but even this simple touch is almost too much, too close. It hurts, for her body to try and reject someone as pure and loving as Phoebe. It hurts Sibella’s very soul.

When she finishes her sordid tale, despite her mounting distress (she is nothing if not stubborn), Phoebe draws out the silence for several agonising seconds longer, deep in thought.

“So, in the absence of your husband, you defended your own honour. Is that correct?”

“I shouldn’t _need_ to!” Sibella sputters, nearing the edge of hysteria. “I don’t _do_ that! I don’t get my hands dirty, you know I’m not built for labour!”

Phoebe strokes the back of Sibella’s hand, thumb moving in soothing circles as she shushes her. “Well, if you could change the past, what would you do instead?”

“I…I would warn him that his behaviour is unacceptable, and that his social standing may decline should he continue to act in that manner. Then I would demand that he leave my house at once.”

“Isn’t that what you did?”

“Well, yes, but _politely_.”

“Ah. Of course.”

Phoebe returns to her musings, a slight frown marring her features as she thinks things over. Sibella raises her face to the ceiling to prevent any tears from falling.

“Phoebe?”

“Hm?”

“Did you have to contend with this?” When no answer is forthcoming, Sibella elaborates, through a clumsy tongue and a treacherous throat. “The fear of… losing yourself. Your mind. Your body.”

“Just the fear? Yes, at one point. Though, in retrospect, I don’t think I had any reason to.”

“Are you are certain that will be the same in my case?”

The ghost of a smile materialises on Phoebe’s face. “You’ve given me no cause for concern. Sibella is impassioned, and noble, and brave, but with a tenderness hidden away like a precious gem. You may think it’s a beast or a heartless witch who is sitting beside me, but it is neither. I see nothing in your eyes but her. My Sibella.”

Sibella opens her mouth. No sound comes from it, but she is adamant it shall be the perfect way to play off how she is truly feeling.

“…Why do you trust me so?”

Never mind. She shouldn’t have bothered.

She certainly cannot be saying it in such a voice, small and cracked. Where is her pride? That’s all she has, anymore, and it has left her to face her greatest weakness – someone who sees her at her lowest, bereft of grace and wit, and yet still loves her. Damn it all, damn everything, except –!

Phoebe places her hands on either side of Sibella’s face.

“Because you are still you,” she urges, smiling, yet Sibella sees the pain her eyes betray, “and you are not alone.”

 

~

 

Lionel is home a lot more, lately, to Sibella’s great displeasure. She understands, of course, that he is unable to afford his usual indifference to anything other than business and politics, now that his chief benefactor has gone to God, but she had never thought she would miss his carelessness. He is simply unbearable to be around, now, with his constant questions and furtive glances and the way he _smells_ – of sweat and metal, an acrid odour poorly hidden underneath his cologne.

It has occurred to her that the aroma might be fear.

There is a gentle glow coming from under the study door. Sibella knocks gently, and when there is no answer, opens the door a crack.

“Lionel?”

The lamplight paints quite the stark picture of the room – sharp shadows stretch along the walls, as dark as pitch and as harsh as a steel trap. The stag head bears more resemblance to a demon than a simple creature of the forest in the gloom, its dark eyes gleaming with a sinister light.

Her husband sits in silhouette, but Sibella can tell he is still in his tailcoat, unchanged since they arrived home more than an hour ago. His shoulders are hunched, but his head is raised, likely listening for any further noise. A stinging smell – alcohol, she guesses. It might be the difference in environment, but it is stronger than when they were at the dinner.

“I’ve come to say goodnight,” Sibella says softly, “and to advise _you_ to retire as well. It’s nearly two.”

He remains stock-still for a moment longer, before he grunts in response. That’s all. Doesn’t even turn to face her.

She does not approach. No point in frightening him so soon.

“Lionel, if there is anything wrong, I think I deserve to know.”

A short, sharp sigh.

“When have you ever _cared_ to know?”

Sibella raises her eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Sibella,” Lionel snaps, “my concerns, my struggles, they are not yours – even though I must carry your burdens as well. You stay in your own little world. I’ll take care of everything.”

 _Sarcasm does not suit you at all,_ Sibella thinks, biting the tip of her tongue to prevent the words from being said aloud. _How bold of you to think that you pay_ any _mind to the things that worry me – that_ _must be_ _why you seemed_ _so_ awfully unsettled _when your business partner was treating me like a common whore. Is that how you think women_ should _be treated?_ _Is that how you see them?_

**_Is that how you see_ me _?_**

“Do you have any idea what I’ve put myself through to keep up with your indulgences?! You reduce me to a lesser man with your insatiable appetites! Will you ever be happy? Will you ever let me get on with my aspirations, and stop dragging me down with your avarice?!”

Sibella’s lip curls back, despite herself. **He certainly d** **oes** **n’t need** _ **her**_ **help to be a** _ **lesser man**_ **. One who can’t take responsibility for his own actions, his own failures –** **how** _ **dare**_ **he think that she is the inferior one of the pair.** **She is capable of** _ **far**_ **more than** _ **him.**_

Wait, no. That’s a dangerous line of thought if there ever was one. _Stop and think, now, Sibella._

Her jaw aches terribly, possibly from clenching it too hard, or perhaps for another reason she refuses to contemplate. Everything feels sharp, wrong, from the prickling on her skin to the coppery taste filling her mouth, the burning in her chest and her throat and her muscles.

Not this again. She should go, before anything gets worse. Tear into a pillow, or something, before she tears into Lionel.

As she moves to the door, Lionel continues his rant unabated. “And the one time I ask you to assist – nothing! You spend every damn day with that cold-hearted miser of a woman, and what have I received? Ten pounds! For _you_! That prig is just as much of a criminal as her husband is accused of being, stealing you from me, leaving me to languish!”

Now, Sibella only really hears a few words from that. **Cold-** **hearted** , **miser** , **prig** , **criminal**. However, she can piece together exactly who he is speaking of, and any witty comebacks or pithy remarks she could have dreamt up are drowned in a boiling, churning sea of rage. She tries to stop, really she does, but now she’s gone from the doorway to his desk, right behind him, and her skin feels stretched to breaking point, everything’s is on fire and the hand she’s raised to grab him **IS NOT A HAND ANYMORE** -

“I’m sorry, Sibella.”

Sibella freezes. Waits.

“You were right,” Lionel goes on, his previous passion suddenly spent, “I am… a touch fatigued, I think. I am prone to say foolish things when I’m this tired.”

_You say foolish things all the time._

“I do care for you. That is my duty as your husband, to care. I admit that work has been… trying, recently, but I can assure you that you will be provided for, one way or another. I shall finish this letter, and then I’ll be off to bed.”

Still he doesn’t look at her. Still he doesn’t move. Neither does Sibella, unable to determine his sincerity, both of them frozen in a tableaux that would likely not look out of place in some two-penny ghost story or Gothic novel.

The part of her who knows better, the angry, spiteful part of her, demands she **stop him from saying anything so hurtful again** . **Bite off his tongue,** **rip** **out his vocal cords –** **no-one would ever think her capable of such a horrible thing, would they** ? **That way, Phoebe would never hear her name upon Lionel’s coarse lips**.

However, the more sensible part of her (and, yes, the two are very different) wins out, and Sibella retreats without a word. She does not trust herself not to say or do something she may forever regret, if she remains in her husband’s vicinity.

Just before she is out of earshot, she hears Lionel call out “I love you”, and she has never truly wanted him dead more than she does in that moment. She doesn’t believe him. Not for a second.

She cannot fathom what sort of person he is, and what sort of person _she_ is, should he be telling the truth.

 

~

 

The curtains in this room are pulled closed, but the golden rays of the afternoon sun still manage to peek through. Sibella can feel it on her skin, those slices of warmth upon her bare shoulders. Yet, that heat is nothing compared to the fire her companion sparks in her. Her arms are around Sibella’s waist, her body pressed against Sibella’s back, her lips either brushing Sibella’s neck or whispering sweet nothings into her ear.

It’s a funny feeling, how Phoebe affects her. These kisses – amazing, exquisite, as important to Sibella as drawing breath – but so were Monty’s, just in a different way. With him, Sibella supposes, it was from how long they had known each other, perfectly familiar with every mannerism, every contour of the other’s face and body. With Phoebe, on the other hand, it is as if Sibella has known that all along, and Phoebe is somehow aware of everything about her in return.

Yet, if that were truly the case, why does Phoebe continue to trust her? She’s ruined her marriage before it’s even gotten started, on more fronts than even she had thought she would, to say nothing of the fact she is willingly sharing a bed with someone she knows has killed.

Then again, Monty…

No. The situation is entirely different. It may not even be the situation at all, and Sibella is just being suspicious.

“Penny for them?”

Sibella scowls, playfully. “Frankly, I’m more annoyed that you stopped doing that wonderful thing with your mouth than anything else.”

“You seemed somewhat preoccupied,” Phoebe murmurs, “is something worrying you?”

“Nothing, pet. Nothing to concern yourself with,” Sibella replies, which is technically true. She’s wondering, not worrying.

Phoebe isn’t satisfied with that answer, but she does not say this out loud. Instead, one hand reaches up, leaving an icy chill on the skin it had covered, and begins combing through golden curls. Her nails scrape Sibella’s scalp just slightly, and Sibella’s eyes close at the contact.

“There are things we do without truly meaning to,” says Phoebe, “and there are things we don’t do that we wish we could. I believe everyone has that feeling, sometimes. I rarely restrain myself that securely, mind, as I find that denying my feelings makes them stronger. Like… like locking a little bird in a cage, it only makes it want to fly free even more.”

Sibella frowns, eyes still shut. “A bird? Would a wolf not be a more apt metaphor?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps neither is truly accurate. I am merely saying you should not be afraid to flap your wings – or howl, as the case may be – with me. Some things cannot, should not be restrained, for your own sake and for the sake of others’. I think that is more true than ever, now.”

Easy for her to say. She does not believe Phoebe has a violent bone in her body, saintly as she is. There is nothing _to_ restrain, with her. Sibella believes she is a different beast, but, perhaps…

She rolls over, and is struck dumb by the sight she beholds.

Look at her! With the sun gilding her hair, that wonderful gemlike sparkle in her eyes – she looks like an angel! Ah, but Phoebe would never claim to be such a thing. She knows what she is, and is under no illusion otherwise. What a strange pair they are.

Sibella finds herself overwhelmed by emotion once again, but of a far more pleasant ilk this time. The kiss is hungry, passion bordering on ferocity. When Sibella ends it, she catches Phoebe’s bottom lip with her teeth, a gentle tug before she pulls away to lick her lips.

Phoebe watches the action intently.

“Feeling bold today, are we?”

“Too much?” Sibella asks.

“Not at all,” Phoebe giggles. “I like it when you’re bold.”

And so, their situations are changed for the briefest of moments – nothing exists beyond the closed door, Sibella feels more content than she has for a long time, and Phoebe is no longer alone.

In the meantime, machinations march on. Gears turn. Plots come closer and closer to fruition.


	10. Amid the Rites Divine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I do not know whether the picture is all I fancy it to be, or whether my imagination, fired by its likeness to myself, gives its atmosphere, but to me it is extraordinarily suggestive... He was obviously one of those born to the worship of beautiful apparitions, and his life had been passed at the extremes of joy and bitterness which that apparently exoteric, but in reality deeply esoteric, cult involves."
> 
> -Israel Rank, on Ethel Gascoyne

Lady Pebworth has invited them to dinner.

Honestly, Sibella was surprised to hear from her, even moreso when the peeress proposed the quiet evening meal. Just a couple of guests, nothing extravagant. From the impression Sibella got from the concert, she had thought that Lady Pebworth was incapable of anything other than extravagance. But, an invitation from a woman of this quality cannot be ignored, and Lionel was pleased to accept.

In her infinite wisdom, Lady Pebworth also chose to invite Sir Anthony Cross.

Sibella is not as familiar with him as he would like her to be. True, he has the money, the brooding air, the stormy eyes, but she knows enough to see there is no tragic story behind them. Not that she’d ever give him a chance to woo her – he is far too old and serious for her liking.

Lionel knows him quite well, mind. They often talk of financial matters, when Sir Anthony chooses to speak at all. Both of them are quite silent, tonight. Lionel pokes at his meal, reeking of stress, while Sibella is left to hold up a conversation with Lady Pebworth about the latest show at the Daly’s (oh, a team of impoverished peers working as servants for millionaire Americans! Ha ha ha! The aristocracy has more pride than that, surely!). Sir Anthony watches, eyes hard and cold, pausing only to glance at Sibella.

Perhaps that fifty-pound payment she had discovered was only one of many to be made. Sibella wonders if Lady Pebworth knows this, somehow, and sought to put Lionel through an ordeal by fire.

“Anyway, Mrs. Holland, I’ve been wondering about your new friend, and her well-being. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”

“My friend?” Sibella asks, head tilted. “I am afraid you will have to be more specific.”

“Why, Lady Navarro, of course. She’s been very polite and extremely steadfast in refusing my invitations.”

Ah. Yes, there’s a very good reason for that.

“The stress of her husband’s trial weighs heavily on her,” Sibella responds. “She is often abed well before seven, sick with worry.”

Lady Pebworth tuts. “Poor dear. Been through so much already, and now this. That family is cursed, I say. I’ve always said it.”

“You have,” says Lord Pebworth, a man who is the very image of the elderly well-bred.

“Although, she’d have quite the capital now, wouldn’t she? One doesn’t have to share the family assets if one has no family to share it with.”

“The land. The properties. Not sure what she’d do with the stockbroking firm, without her husband.”

Lionel, having moved his meal into every possible place on the plate, sets down his fork. “Out of curiosity, what would happen to her if Lord Navarro were to be found guilty?”

“Not that he will be,” Sibella adds.

Lionel scowls. She can’t think why.

Lord Pebworth thinks for a moment, his majestic moustache twitching. “I am no expert on the D’Ysquith genealogy, but I am aware the earldom _can_ be inherited by the women in the family. If Lord Navarro were to die – for whatever reason – I believe _Lady_ Navarro is next in line. As the last remaining D’Ysquith, she would be countess in her own right.”

“Just as well,” replies Lady Pebworth, “The only way Lady Eugenia is leaving that dower house is in a hearse.”

Sibella laughs, because she has to if she wants to be invited back. Lionel makes no such effort. Honestly, she has to do everything, doesn’t she?

“So, the countess hasn’t been seeing anyone, apart from my wife?”

Lord Pebworth shakes his head. “She’s been seeing the barristers and the family solicitors. The occasional tenant. She’s still the countess, after all. She has duties."

“I believe a few charity matrons have come to call, as well,” Lady Pebworth chimes in. “Purely business, of course, pressuring her to donate to this hospital or that society, whatever specific collection of the poor and downtrodden they represent.”

Lionel opens his mouth. Sibella can see it on his face, the crinkling of his nose and the twisting of his mouth. It is the face of a spoilt child, denied something, and she knows it well enough. The next thing out of his mouth shall be along the lines of ‘ _Then, why won’t she see me? Why won’t she write? Why won’t she give_ me _charity, why won’t she give me what I_ want _?’_ and his true nature as a needy, desperate man will be exposed to everyone.

Then, Sir Anthony shifts in his seat. He says nothing, as he is known to do, but there is a distinct change in his demeanour. His jaw sets, he pulls his shoulders back, and he fixes Lionel with a glare that could melt steel.

Lionel cannot meet the baronet’s eyes, and so turns to Sibella. He finds no sanctuary in her gaze, either. There is a smile on her face, of course, but it is so sharp and wicked Lionel might cut himself on it. She watches his eyes widen, just slightly, and revels in the way the indignation drains out of him.

“ **Something wrong, darling?** ”

Lionel looks to the others. He finds no quarter in Lord and Lady Pebworth. Frightened, alone, he curls in on himself.

“Nothing, dear,” he mutters, “nothing at all.”

And the dinner party goes on. The topic of conversation turns to fashion, far safer ground for Sibella, and Lionel sees fit to stew in his unhappiness for the rest of the night.

Sibella, meanwhile, cannot help but bask in her victory, the satisfaction of making her husband submit.

 

~

 

To Sibella’s surprise (and her consternation), Gorby elects to escort her to the countess on her next visit. He most likely should, such is his duty, but the change instils a feeling of trepidation. True, there was already trepidation, but that is largely unrelated.

“An incident has occurred. Something unusual,” he explains, irritatingly deadpan about the situation. “One of the maids has discovered not all is as it should be in the far end of the castle.”

“Is she alright?”

Gorby arches a brow. “Her Ladyship, or the maid?”

“Well, both, of course.”

“Hilda is perfectly fine. A bit confused, but in no way injured. Her Ladyship is currently investigating the area.”

“Alone?”

“At her request, yes,” Gorby replies, stone-faced. “We have no reason to be concerned, Mrs. Holland. The area has been searched, and we have found no hidden assailants or traps waiting for her.”

Sibella purses her lips. “I shall worry as much or as little as I please, Mr. Gorby. Now, where is she?”

The butler indicates what must be the most ominous door in the entire castle. Stained black, reinforced with metal, locks on the outside – and, what is most frightening of all, it is open. Uneven stonework protrudes from the arch of the doorway, and more slate-grey bricks are piled up on the other side. A set of stairs coils upwards, out of sight.

“Would you like assistance ascending the tower, Mrs. Holland?”

“No need. I’m quite capable, thank you very much.”

“If you are certain. Do be careful – the early denizens of Highhurst did not care much for safety.”

 

Sibella now knows what Eugenia meant when she said the castle was falling apart. She is often checking her footing on the worn stone steps, but she does notice some things. The windows tower over her, their glass missing or cracked, all of them covered in rusted iron bars. The pale light of the autumn sun is impeded by them, flashing in the corner of Sibella’s eye, as if the bars were trees in a forest.

At the top of the tower, a chill that cannot be entirely explained by the cold breeze overcomes her. Someone had worked up here, however long ago. There is a desk off to one side, empty shelves with only the memory of books to fill them, both in states of neglect and decay. Phoebe stands in the middle of it all, examining a rust-coloured stain on the floor, one hand on her chest as the wind seeping through the windows dances around the hem of her dress.

“We shouldn’t be up here, Sibella.”

Sibella is inclined to agree, as she holds onto her skirts.

“There are a lot of things we ought not to do,” she says, “but we do them anyway. Is there harm in it?”

“Well, I don’t know. You see, this tower has been sealed for about two hundred years.”

“Oh, yes?”

“I did not ask for it to be _un_ sealed.”

The wind howls through the cracked glass.

“Yes. Yes, that sounds like it might be a problem.”

Phoebe points at the frame on the wall. Much of the figure on the canvas is indistinct – the paint has cracked and peeled off, the image has faded after being exposed to the elements for so long – but Sibella can make out the green of his clothes, the jewels embedded into the sword on his belt, and the eyes…

Sibella had laughed at the notion that Monty was a D’Ysquith, once. How could he be? He looked nothing like the earl, the stockbroker, the reverend. But this man in the picture, if he is indeed a member of the family, would put all questions of Monty’s lineage to rest. Those eyes. Just like his.

“Lord Ethel D’Ysquith, Third Earl of Highhurst,” Phoebe informs her, with a grimace. “Suspected of poisoning his elder brother, and duelled another to the death. After gaining the castle and the surrounding lands, he proceeded to let them fall to ruin, going quite mad instead of fulfilling the responsibilities he killed to have.”

 _I like that,_ a faint voice says, almost lost amidst the breeze. ‘ _Quite mad’. What a quaint way to put it._ _Are you protecting your guest’s delicate_ _s_ _en_ _s_ _ibilities,_ _young D’Ysquith_ _?_

Sibella looks over her shoulder. There is no-one else in the tower.

Phoebe does not miss a beat. “Do you deny it?” she says to the empty air.

_Not… exactly. I will, however, say that I imagine the tales you’ve heard are embellished._

“Who is speaking right now?” Sibella says in a low voice. “Is it the picture?”

 _I_ _ha_ _ve been_ so _lonely,_ the voice goes on, and Sibella honestly feels a bit affronted at being ignored. _My cousin had no obligation to brick up the door, to_ _lock_ _away my life’s work, but the fool believed it haunted._ A pause. _Not that he was a fool for_ that _assumption._

“Who unsealed the door? Who have you seen?” Phoebe demands.

_A woman. Plain-clothed. Not old, with brown hair. Wearing a white apron. I haven’t seen her face that well, unfortunately. Now that you’ve discovered her ritual site, I fear I never will._

Sibella frowns. A servant, from the sounds of it. Highhurst has a full staff, too, and no real shortage of Maids Who Are Not Old. The bricks at the door, did she remove all those by herself without anyone noticing? Although, Sibella supposes, no-one would bother to open the door and check…

…Wait, ritual site?

Phoebe fiddles with her necklace, frowning. Her face is relatively calm, but the frantic fidgeting lays bare her anxieties. “And what was she doing? Did you see?”

_I shall answer with a question. How familiar are you with the first countess’… academic pursuits?_

Silence.

“More than I would like to be,” Phoebe replies, her voice like ice.

 _Ah, one of th_ _e church’s_ faithful _, I take it,_ the portrait says, and Sibella can feel the smug smile, even if she cannot see it. _I am sorry to say that this mysterious woman is following in her stead, as it were. That bloodstain there? I didn’t make that one. I am only responsible for the one at the bottom of the stairs._

Phoebe immediately steps back from the blotch, into Sibella, and the two almost topple over. A laugh rings out, and Sibella feels the warmth of anger and embarrassment rise up to her face.

“The woman,” she snaps, a vain attempt to recover both her and Phoebe’s dignity, “how long has she been coming up here?”

There is a disinterested sigh. _Time was often a foreign concept to me when I was alive,_ _little thing_ _._ _How could I possibly say?_

“Thank you for the information, Lord Ethel,” Phoebe cuts in, then looks to Sibella. “Could you help me on the stairs? I have no wish to suffer my ancestor’s fate, if I can avoid it.”

… _I_ _suppose I w_ _alked into that one. Or, rather, tripped and fell into it._ _Ha ha._

“Of course, Countess.”

 _D o come to visit soon ,_ calls Ethel, as they descend out of his sight. Sibella has no intention of ever being in his presence again.

“This may not be the time,” she whispers, “but what exactly did Ethel do?”

“Well, he had difficulty remembering who – and what – he was, and regularly bit his servants when they annoyed him. Rumours of the time suggest he ate at least one.”

Sibella hears the cry of _Oh,_ _only a little bit_ _,_ before Gorby closes the tower door, and the late lord is silenced.

Gorby.

Gorby?

“Have you been waiting for us?” Sibella asks.

“I felt someone ought to watch out for you.”

Sibella does not have time to dwell of what on earth he means by that before Phoebe pipes up, “Well, we’re both out of harm’s way now, Mr. Gorby. There is a matter of some delicacy I must discuss with Mrs. Holland.”

Gorby bows, and exits.

When she is certain the butler is out of earshot, Phoebe slumps against the wall, her hands over her face. While she has been pale and wan for quite some time, with a modicum of improvement once Sibella had realised the depth of her feelings – but now, she looks absolutely stricken, she looks like death. Sibella would like nothing more than to solve everything, to hunt down every complication in Phoebe’s life, no matter how paltry or tremendous, and wipe them from the face of the earth. Any person would do the same if they in her position, surely.

But, there is no clear target. This problem comes from unknown source. She cannot fight something she cannot identify. The hands that would be put to better use wringing this mysterious woman’s neck cup Phoebe’s face instead.

“There now, sweet. It will be alright.”

“Am I such a poor mistress, Sibella? I have failed in my duties already; so caught up in my own ruminations, I was oblivious to this… this… obscenity, happening under my nose!”

“Gorby didn’t notice it,” Sibella replies, “the staff didn’t notice it. It may not have even happened. Your ancestor, he could be lying.”

“And what reason does he have to do so? Why, then, was the tower opened without my knowledge?!”

Sibella opens her mouth, but no sound escapes. Eventually she comes up with, “...Overly-zealous cleaners?”

Phoebe looks deep into her eyes, frightened, almost begging. “This is why, isn’t it? It was the first countess’s tower. This is why… it’s happening so much… and you…”

Sibella’s stomach drops.

“You think this is the cause of the change?” she asks.

“It’s what makes the most sense, at present. Fighting the occult _with_ the occult, as it were.”

The words wash over Sibella’s mind, devoid of meaning. The only thoughts that stick are simple – why? Someone chose to aggrieve the loveliest woman on earth, they chose to hurt _her_ , too. Who? How?

“I can’t fire all of them,” Phoebe laments. “I don’t want to. I want to _trust_ them, Sibella. I want to feel safe, for once.”

“You will be safe. I shall make it so.”

“Don’t,” Phoebe pleads, suddenly wild-eyed, gripping tightly to Sibella’s wrists. “Don’t get involved anymore than you have to, Sibella. Highhurst, the earldom, it has taken my family and my husband from me already – I will not let it take you, too.”

Sibella’s heart aches at that, with sorrow and fury. Phoebe had not asked for any of this, had she? If anything, it shows that Sibella was right all along, that love and marriage made a poor pair. Phoebe followed her husband into the treacherous forest of the aristocracy, and found herself caught in a trap, alone and afraid, with no-one left to save her.

No-one but Sibella. The worst person for the task.

She rises to her full height. “Highhurst can’t do anything to me,” she says, and she doesn’t know whether she believes _herself_ , let alone if Phoebe does, “and even if it can, I refuse to leave you like this. There is no-one, living or dead, that is able to stop me from doing so. Not ghosts, not witches, and certainly not Lionel, whatever he may say.”

...Oh.

She shouldn’t have mentioned that last bit.

Phoebe’s expression changes. “Lionel?”

“Ah.” Pause. “Well.” Pause. “Yes. I didn’t want to bring you any more bad news, but...”

Sibella reaches into her purse, and hands Phoebe the opened envelope.


	11. A Heartless Wife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Non-explicit domestic abuse and attempts at emotional manipulation. No explicit violence.

_Lady Phoebe D’Ysquith-Navarro, Countess of Highhurst,_

 

_It has come to my attention that you have found a close friend in my wife, and that you greatly appreciate her company during this period of illness. I am glad that she could bring you comfort during this stressful period, and that you have found her natural charms agreeable to your refined tastes. However, the fact you have elected to entertain the overtures of lowly peasants and rapacious guilt-slingers over your close friend’s husband strikes me as odd – not only because of your supposedly uncharacteristic austerity, but the idea you are forsaking the well-being and happiness of your bosom companion to instead fritter away your family’s fortune on unwise investments._

_As you have ignored my quite reasonable request to discuss matters of finance (as a representative of your husband, of course), I see no reason for you to continue to enjoy the pleasure of my wife’s company. Until you agree to answer my pleas, she will be barred from visiting Highhurst. If Lord Navarro is found guilty, you shall have to take his job of associating with unfamiliar members of polite society (such as myself) as part of your duties, and as such I recommend you begin the practice as soon as possible._

_I would not wait on this letter as long as you have previously, my lady. I know your secret, and I am sure my father’s paper would be anxious to publish it, should it be found out._

 

_I await your reply most eagerly._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Mr. Lionel Holland._

 

Phoebe has very little to say about the letter. There really isn’t anything _to_ say, other than, “Which secret is he referring to, I wonder?”

 

~

 

Sibella _sh_ _ould_ be quite annoyed that Esther isn’t doing her job properly.

It is very subtle, she admits. If she were not so supernaturally perceptive, it may have gone unnoticed. But Sibella knows. She notices the reluctance Esther displays over the prospect of cleaning the guest room. She hears the clattering she makes in there when she knows Sibella is listening, feigning a thorough tidying-up.

The fact Esther has said _nothing_ of the suitcases underneath the bed, to either of her employers, is the evidence that convicts her of her crime. Nevertheless, Sibella remains silent, to protect both her careless servant and herself.

Because, _really_ , Lionel can’t expect to keep her captive forever, can he? He backs himself into a fiscal corner in his attempts to placate her, attempts he cannot sustain for long. She paces, when left to her own devices – a beast in a gilded cage, though the gold leaf covering the bars has almost entirely flaked off by now – now wholly unable to keep herself still. Every part of her burns with the desire to do… something, Sibella doesn’t know what, but she can feel it is violent in nature. To crush something. Tear at it. Or, perhaps, she wants to pin it down and keep it to herself, and ensure no-one else dares to come near.

She was right about the wolves. Or the birds, as Phoebe preferred. Birds sound prettier, but this doesn’t feel pretty at all.

 

Esther calls her down one evening, to present the delivery of flowers that has just arrived.

“Queer thing, isn’t it?” Sibella can hear her say to the cook, from the kitchen.

“They’re flowers,” Cook replies, ever the pragmatist. “They look pretty. That’s their job done, innit?”

“But they don’t go together, I mean. Those white ones – I remember they’re what my grandmother was buried with. They’re mismatched with the heathers, and the begonias. Those are happy flowers. And why are the leaves all dead?”

“Nothin’ wrong with red, or white, or purple. Nothin’ wrong with big flowers or small ones. I think your appraisal of this arrangement, and by extension your aesthetic position, is parochial, nay, dogmatic, and is a detriment to both yourself and for the continued development of art as a whole.”

“…Can you not simply agree with me for once? Please? Just- just nod your head and smile a little bit. That’s all I ask.”

“Shan’t.”

Well, Sibella will agree with Esther, if nothing else. The arrangement is strange, certainly, but it is still beautiful. Stems lined with lavender blossoms, the funeral flowers, the bloody-red begonias. There’s a small card on the front, smaller than a calling card, two letters in careful cursive.

_P. N._

Immediately, Sibella straightens, stiffens. Phoebe sent them. A reasonable conclusion to draw, yes, but the fact it’s _Phoebe_ implies the bouquet is a letter without words, that there is some meaning behind the blooms. Has something happened? Is she in danger? Are they _both_ on the precipice of ruin, and she feels the need to warn Sibella of the coming storm?

Heather. Begonias. Was it… some sort of rose? And then there are those little flowers, the purple ones growing close together on the one stem – Sibella doesn’t know them at all. Does the colour matter? If the flowers are alive, why are the leaves surrounding them dead?

“Who sent you those?”

Sibella freezes at the sound of Lionel’s voice.

If there ever was a fault in her perception of him, it is that she never takes him as seriously as she should. True, he is not a particularly hard opponent to outwit, but she has always treated him with a sense of irreverence that does not suit the balance of their relationship. She has little to no property of her own. Things could go badly for her quite easily.

“ _Well_?” Lionel growls.

Sibella does not trust herself to lie convincingly; all of her concentration is currently being spent on remaining nonchalant.

“The countess, I believe,” she replies, and quietly hopes his mind defaults to Lady Pebworth, or Lady Sackville, or one of the other countesses they know. “Aren’t they lovely?”

It doesn’t. “Throw them out.”

Sibella hears a quiet gasp from the kitchen.

“Whatever for? They’re a gift, and a very thoughtful one, too.”

“They’re unwanted. Countess Navarro has lost her right to associate with you.”

“For what crime? Lady Navarro has been nothing but kind and generous to me.” Her heart jumps at the way Lionel’s eyes burn with indignation. “What could she have done to make you feel so threatened?”

“ _I’m not_ _threatened_ _!_ _Don’t you ever make such insinuations again, do you hear me?!_ ”

A hush descends upon the house like the blade of a guillotine. Lionel’s face is absent of the boyish charm Sibella was first drawn to – it is flushed as red as the flowers, jaw clenched, veins throbbing in his neck. The look she is receiving would char the skin off a lesser person.

Sibella isn’t daunted. Cautious, yes, but undeterred. She circles him, studying his posture. He whips his head this way and that, trying to keep her in sight, sweat beading on his brow.

“Esther, dear, do you mind fetching some meat for tomorrow’s dinner?” She calls out, eyes still trained on Lionel.

There’s an embarrassed silence, as Esther weighs her options. Eventually, there is a guilty, “What sort?”

“Oh, I don’t mind.”

“Well, we have some beef in the larder -” Cook begins, before she’s cut off by a quiet “ _smile and nod, woman_!” and two sets of footsteps scurry out the servant’s entrance.

Lionel squirms under his wife’s raptorial gaze. There is anxiety in the action, that is evident, but Sibella thinks there is shame, too. For what? His outburst, or for his obvious lie?

“You cannot hide from me, Lionel,” she drawls. “There are no obstacles between you and Lady Navarro but the ones you create yourself. Is it that a meeting would require strength of character, rather than money? What reason is there other than fear?”

Lionel says nothing of that comment. “She is not what she seems, Sibella. She is a danger to you.”

“And you know her as I do?”

“I see her clearly, unlike you.”

It is impossible for Sibella to hide her sneer. The thought anyone knew Phoebe better than she! The very nerve! “What is her great sin, then, dear? Is it prudence? Temperance?”

“Her transgressions are too shocking for you to hear. _Take my word for it_.”

“Oh, what rot! You think your understanding of me goes deeper than my own? I know what you see in me, Lionel, and I know it is _all_ you see – nothing more than a pretty little _toy_ , something to be shown off to all of your business partners, to care for like one cares for a trophy! _She_ knows more of me than _you_ care to realise!”

A tiny part of her mind screams at her to stop her raving, quickly, before she crosses that line she refused to even tread near for Monty. To do as her husband instructs, to give him no reason to cast her out – for there are very many things he could use to justify his decision.

She never listens to that part anymore. She takes what she wants. Does what she wants.

Lionel pales. “She’s changed you, hasn’t she? That countess. You never used to do this, you used to… agree with me, all the time. You used to love me, comfort me, obey me. What wicked ideas has she planted in your mind, what… what spells has that witch cast upon you?!”

“She has done _nothing_ to deserve your scorn!” Sibella snaps. “You can hardly complain about _her_ keeping secrets, can you?! Not when you’ve been keeping your debts hidden from me!”

“She _told_ you?”

“Unlike you, she thought I had the right to know!”

Lionel gapes.

“Why _would_ I?” he asks, and, by God, he does not sound defensive, but truly _confused_. “It’s not something you need to know. The only information _you_ need from me is what to prepare for when I return home.”

“You think remaining silent on something that will affect me so is acceptable?”

“It isn’t your place to worry about finances. Widows and spinsters may have to receive help, but _married_ women keep the house, the servants, the children. Not the _money_.”

Sibella’s fury is not abated, but it is stayed as reality once again rests its weight upon her shoulders. Her time with Phoebe _has_ changed her, hasn’t it? Not just the obvious. The way she thinks. She believes Lionel beneath her, a useful idiot, but where would she be without his influence, his name?

“You can’t worry about matters that don’t concern you, Sibella,” Lionel says gently, as if talking to a child, “I am doing all I can to ensure a comfortable life for both of us. It is simply a matter of getting rid of things we don’t need – like a full team of servants, or the painting in the drawing room, or…or the motorcar.”

 _Ah, yes, the motorcar,_ Sibella thinks. She’d been too busy fighting the urge to break something to notice it missing, and is honestly surprised he didn’t sell the house before it. She can imagine what he would have said, too – _Oh, Sibella,_ my dearest _, the roof of the car shall protect us from the weather as well as four walls_ _would_ _._ _It’s what brought us together, however could I get rid of it?_

Another thought occurs to her, snapping at the heels of the one before it, one that clears the stormy clouds in her head like a sudden gale. She is so afraid of where she shall be without the Holland reputation tied to her – but where will she end up if that connection remains?

Lionel reaches up to brush her cheek. “Can you not appreciate the sacrifices I have made for you, my dearest? Please, let us end this lover’s quarrel. Whatever will people think if you walked out on me?”

“I don’t know,” Sibella responds, dreamy and half-there.

“Exactly. Now, go fetch Esther and tell her -”

“Oh, no, Lionel, I think you misunderstand. I will not be staying.”

Lionel stares, face slackened. “But- you can’t do that. I won’t allow it.”

“Have my feet been nailed to the floor?” There is no sound but the gears in Lionel’s head turning. “I think it best that I take one worry off your mind. I’ll return when you get your financial affairs in order, and when you decide to stop deceiving me.”

He doesn’t follow her to the first floor immediately. Sibella does not think this odd – she imagines they’re both still reeling from her declaration. She would have preferred this to be a quieter event, or to be able to slip away under cover of night. Ideally, she would not need to confront Lionel at _all_ , but things have rarely been working out the way she’d like these days.

Her hands tremble as she removes her suitcases from their hiding place. There are still some belongings in her bedroom she has not had the opportunity to pack. The jewellery will be sold, most likely, but what of the clothes? What will Lionel do to the fine silks and befeathered hats in her absence?

The sound of her husband thundering up the stairs quickly takes precedence. Sibella goes to rush out, but Lionel looms in the doorway, blocking her escape.

“Is it the motorcar?!” he cries, on the edge of despair, “I can buy it back! You realise what you’re doing to me, don’t you?! You are _condemning_ me! You cannot leave!”

“You have condemned yourself,” Sibella shoots back, “I’m simply refusing to lie in the bed you’ve made.”

“There is only one option left for me, you realise. What a soulless woman! You’d rather see me _dead_ than dispose of some flowers! You’d rather see me with a _noose_ around my neck! Would you push the stool out from under me, or shall I have to do _that_ myself, too?!”

“ **Pathetic! Absolutely pathetic!** **It is no fault of mine that you’ve failed as a husband, as a man! Dig your own grave if you must,** **but** **if** _ **I**_ **were to kill you, I’d make sure** **there’d be nothing to bury!** ”

Again, both need time to compose themselves. Sibella covers her face, breathing heavily; everything is suddenly too much. The blood thrumming in her ears, the way her clothes feel against her skin, the way her teeth sit in her mouth. She can smell Lionel, hear his shoes against the hardwood floor as he steps closer.

“ **Don’t touch me** ,” Sibella warns, but does not move.

“You are a shrew, you know that? A strumpet. A _doctor’s daughter_ with delusions of grandeur. Your pretty face belies your true nature, I think, and I have been too blind to see it until now.”

Sibella barks out a rueful laugh.

“I’ve endured your venomous tongue for far too long. You are being irrational, and it is my duty to keep the household under control. I shall give you a choice – you end your tantrum and apologise, or I will make you.”

 **I have a counter offer,** she thinks. **Stop starving me. Stop locking me up, only letting me out to do tricks for your betters. Stop keeping me from the one thing I want. Give me freedom, or I will tear the flesh from your bones.**

But Sibella doesn’t say that. She doesn’t say anything. The only thing that comes out of her mouth is an ugly, wordless snarl.

Lionel’s calloused hands clamp around her wrist, and that is the last thing Sibella remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flowers in the arrangement are, in no particular order: Begonias (red), Heather (lavender), Tuberoses and Verbena. The foliage is dead for a reason.


	12. The Logic of Despair

It is a dark and stormy night.

Sibella could not be more upset by this.

Highhurst. It is always Highhurst where she finds herself at her lowest. Its rain-slicked walls glisten like pitch in the darkness, looming above her. As if she needed to feel any more small and hopeless. The pain of neglecting to bring an umbrella is suffering enough.

The old door slowly creaks open. The young footman on the other side catches a glimpse of her, and freezes, his face pale.

“Yes, I know the hour is late and the Countess is no longer receiving, but do you mind letting me in? The weather is ill-suited for an evening stroll.”

“I… of course, my lady!” Sibella can see in the way he cringes that he regrets his decision. “Ah, but, would you mind waiting just inside? I shall need to inform my superior of this.”

“Very well.” The foot in the door was the most important part, she supposes.

After ushering her inside, the footman does a strange, quick walk down the hallway before disappearing through some door or another. Sibella doesn’t pay him much mind, once he’s done his job. She’s finally gotten some time to focus on herself.

She knows she is a mess, even if she wasn’t sopping wet. The state of her clothes can tell her that much. Her dress, the burgundy one with the embroidery that she loved so much – it’s in tatters. It’s _hanging_ off of her, and she can’t remember if she did that to herself, or something else… oh, she’d kill for a pin or two, just to make herself look slightly more presentable.

Her lip twists downwards. She shouldn’t think things like that. Phrases once used in jest had become too dangerous to even consider, lest she fool herself into acting on them.

She wipes down her face, trying to clean off some of the rain and the guilt, and her hand comes back stained with scarlet.

A door opens somewhere down the hall, and Gorby steps into her field of vision. She is met with the most damning castigation she has experienced in her entire life – not one, but _two_ raised eyebrows from Highhurst’s butler.

“Madam.”

“Mr. Gorby.”

Gorby pauses for a moment, then gestures down the hall. “Right this way.”

A touch relieved at the quick recovery, Sibella follows. The portraits stare down at her from their perches, perhaps literally, as the two of them walk in silence. She would very much like to tear them down from their high ground, to bring an end to their belief that they were right about her – or to her own shame, whatever the truth of the matter may be. She doesn’t know anymore.

( _It’s like a nightmare, flashes of sounds and sights and feelings she can’t quite recall in any detail. The fog that’s shrouded her mind has not yet receded in full. Will it ever?_ )

“A bed has already been prepared for you,” says Gorby, “Countess Navarro’s foresight – or, perhaps, blind faith – saw to it that such a thing should be ready in case of your arrival. Is there anything else you require? A change of clothes, perhaps? Footwear?”

Ah, yes. She doesn’t know where her shoes have disappeared to, and while a part of her is inconsolable at the loss, Sibella quite likes the feel of the carpet beneath her feet. “Both would be lovely, but for now I would be content with a warm fire.”

“As you say. I don’t mean to pry, madam, but how is it you made your way to us this evening? Did you walk?”

“No, I… I paid someone. To drive me to a place I recognised.”

Her engagement ring no longer had the shine she once enjoyed, though it hadn’t lost any of its monetary value. She thinks back to the look on the old man’s face when she offered it in exchange for safe transport – at the time, she thought it had been the state of her dress or her choice of payment that had unsettled him so.

Ah ha ha ha.

( _There’s blood_ _under her fingernails,_ _on her mouth._ In _her mouth,_ _metallic_ _and foul. Why is_ _it there_ _? Who does it belong to?_ )

The butler ruminates on this a touch longer than is comfortable. “I am grateful that you have returned unharmed, madam. A great many people were worried for your safety.” He stops, opening a set of double doors. “In here for now, please.”

Sibella never liked this room. It hasn’t been changed for… well, she doesn’t know how long, but at least since Lord Adalbert died. True, she only met the man once, but the garish taxidermy adorning the room could only be his work – or, admittedly, that of his equally tasteless ancestors. Still, there is a roaring, well-stocked fireplace. Sibella supposes she should ask for more, but…

Well, it’s not about manners in this case, is it? It’s about what she deserves.

“And, by ‘a great many people’, I assume you mean the countess and no-one else,” Sibella half-jokes.

“I am a man of integrity, madam. Perhaps you would like me to show you the newspaper?”

It occurs to Sibella, rather quickly and disconcertingly, that Gorby has not referred to her as ‘Mrs. Holland’ this evening.

“What does it say of me?” she asks, suddenly feeling even more ill, “Of my husband?”

( _She killed him. She_ must _have_ killed him _. God, this is_ his _blood, isn’t it?!_ His _blood,_ _on_ her _tongue_ _!!_ )

“That there was some sort of disagreement, according to the constables interviewed. Signs of a scuffle, some blood, and no sign of you or Mr. Holland. They _did_ find suitcases full of women’s clothes – the current theory is that you sought to leave him, and he decided to,” Gorby waves a dismissive hand, “prevent that. Is this correct?”

 _Well, it’s close,_ Sibella would like to say, but it seems speech is failing her once again. Is he dead? Alive? A wolf – _the_ wolf – would not have the presence of mind to hide a body, but it only confirms Lionel didn’t die _in the house_. There are still a number of possibilities when it came to _where_ , exactly, his mutilated corpse could be rotting.

Gorby bows his head. “I have allowed my curiosity to outweigh your comfort. Forgive me. I shall go and prepare the items you’ve requested.”

The door closes. Sibella waits, ears pricked, breath held, until she no longer hears any sound outside of the room. Silence, beautiful and horrible silence surrounds her, save the crackling of the fire, and her own heartbeat.

She sinks to the floor, hugging her knees, the trembling not solely from the cold still set in her bones. Oh, to truly be an animal! To be free of overthinking, of regret! The thought is utterly repulsive and dangerously seductive at the same time, for what does Sibella Holland have left to her? A tattered gown, an uncontrollable temper, and an impending scandal too ghastly to even envision.

Her husband. That man, who represented everything she had desired – wealth, rank, beauty – he, and they, are gone. She had seen to that. She must have. Sibella can imagine it, despite her better judgement; tearing through his throat with teeth ill-suited to lips as soft as hers, his handsome face stripped from his skull. Disgusting. Petrifying.

…

Fascinating.

It should not have gone as far as Sibella thinks it did, but she had done something she has never thought herself capable of doing – she had confronted him. She had looked Lionel in the eye, told him exactly what he had to do, and defied his every attempt to cow her into submission. It was thrilling, perhaps even moreso than rebuking Mr. Morton was however long ago. With Lionel, though, there is a question that goes unanswered – was it the wolf speaking the entire time, as it was with his partner, or was it simply her?

Sibella stares down at her hands. What is left of the blood on her hands isn’t yet dry.

She doesn’t know if she is truly beyond those things Lionel afforded her, if she could survive without them. What she _has_ demonstrated, however, is that she is not quite as shallow as many, herself included, thought her to be.

The knock at the door is gentle, but Sibella flinches awfully at the sound. Gorby, she tells herself. It must be Gorby, ready to take her to her rooms. She’ll be able to continue being wretched without any further interruption. She straightens what is left of her dress, smooths down her hair, more out of habit than anything else. There are some things she cannot fix, but she can present herself to the butler with at least a shred of dignity.

That idea, like many of her best-laid plans, falls apart the second she opens the door, for it is not Mr. Gorby on the other side. No, this figure is in a nightdress, covered by a white silk robe. It has wide, blue eyes, its lips slightly parted in shock.

It is Phoebe, looking perfectly and startlingly human.

There is a moment, and neither is sure exactly how long it drags on for, where they simply stare at one another. Each is unable to make head nor tail of the other’s circumstance. Sibella, for her part, tightens her grip on the doorknob, grateful that it’s solid metal. This is the seat of the earldom, of course the countess is here somewhere, but – is this her? Here? Now? Like this? Maybe this is merely a fantasy of frayed nerves and a muddled mind. Perhaps Sibella fell asleep in front of the fire, and this is but a dream.

After another minute of soundless gaping, Phoebe raises slender fingers to Sibella’s cheeks, and disproves the other woman’s theory. It is so painfully gentle, a touch as soft as flower petals, as if Phoebe is afraid Sibella will disintegrate if she presses too hard.

Her concerns are not entirely unfounded.

“How?” Sibella whimpers.

Phoebe understands the broken request perfectly. “I cannot say. The day you left, that evening – it didn’t happen then. It hasn’t happened since.”

The day Sibella left was the day in the tower. Is it truly all that simple? Disrupting the site for some dark ceremony was all it took? No, it can’t be, not when Sibella’s body and mind no longer obey her. Nothing has been cured.

“I’ve felt so empty,” Phoebe continues, “like a part of my soul has been ripped from me. It is a hollowness deeper than anything before it.”

“Something is still missing,” Sibella surmises.

Phoebe steps closer. A hair’s breadth separates them, now, and there is no doubt she is real – Sibella cannot think for the sight of soft, unmarked skin, the heady scent of her, the sensation of warm breath on Sibella’s neck.

“There are many things still missing. One of those things was you.”

She leans in, but Sibella ducks away. Her hand gropes blindly behind her for something to hold on to. Something to anchor her. This isn’t fair. None of this is fair. Especially not the way Phoebe is looking at her right now, the confusion and hurt concentrated wholly on _her_ and not just her state.

“Please don’t do such things to me,” Sibella implores, her voice hoarse. “I no longer know myself – I no longer know if the person you want still exists.”

“She is -”

“- Right in front of you? You look, dear heart, but you do not see.”

Sibella turns her palms face up, bares her teeth. Phoebe’s face becomes eerily blank, but Sibella can sense the pain behind it. She is causing her pain.

“What would you have done if you’d tasted blood on my lips?” She asks. “Would you be able to tell me whose it is? Because I can’t remember. I don’t know what I did to Lionel, I don’t know how I wandered so far from home, I don’t even know how long I’ve been missing – and I don’t know what will happen to you, if you continue to indulge me so.”

Phoebe tugs at the sleeve on her robe, looking away. Sibella catches her say to herself “Must you remind me...” before the much louder, “Do you think that you’ll hurt me?”

“Yes.” _I have already. I will again._

“Do you love me?”

Sibella whines, a wounded animal. She can’t admit that. If she does, she shall lose Phoebe as well, just like everything else she’s ever loved. But, if she doesn’t, Phoebe will leave her. Sibella cannot win. She will never win.

“I think,” Phoebe begins, “that many people, including those who care for me very much, think of me as more delicate than I truly am. They believe that I must be protected from the evils and unpleasantries of the world, lest they overwhelm my fragile body. I admit that I often feel a lot more than is strictly necessary, but that alone does not make me weak. I do not require protection, Sibella, not from you or from any other threat. To _protect_ me is to push me to the side, to take matters into your own hands and your hands alone.”

“Yet you tried to push _me_ away, with the… witch business. You begged me not to get involved, and where did that get me?”

“…You were taken from me by a far more mundane source, it’s true. I thought you’d already suffered enough horrors in your defence of me. I thought to spare you more pain, and in doing so became your, and my own, adversary. I assume _that_ ,” she gestures to Sibella’s hands, “is evidence that you don’t need _protection_ either. What I _do_ think both of us need is support. Comfort. Understanding.”

“Love,” Sibella murmurs. The word is not said happily.

Phoebe does not confirm or deny. “Do not forget for a second that I, too, am a wolf. Your nature alone will not overpower me. Not when I am similarly inclined.”

This is not a revelation. It was Phoebe that had made the first move, where Sibella had resigned herself to watching from afar, terrified of exposure. She assumes Phoebe hadn’t known what would occur because of that, but even when the truth came to light, she continued despite her concerns.

So had Sibella.

Both had so many opportunities to cease these dangerous pleasures, but they had been too enamoured with each other to do so. Because of the blind, foolish love that Phoebe prizes, Sibella is where she is now. Bloodied. Hardened. Without grace, refinement, value. There is no return from that now. They had played with fire, and been rightly burned.

However, if there _is_ no return…

“You may touch me,” Phoebe says, a curious smile on her face. “I will not break.”

Sibella does, all too eager, and the white of Phoebe’s robe is stained irreparably red.


End file.
